As the Night Falls
by Cinis
Summary: One. In all the world, there is one person who shares your mark. Who shares your soul. Who is your equal. Katarina's mark sits graceful on her hip, tapering lines, the movement of blades. Riven's mark grows vine-like across her right hand, a living thing that never changes. In Noxus, there is no destiny, only strength. [Katariven] [soulmarks AU deconstruction]
1. In Light: Chapter 1

A/N: Thank you to my beta readers, CrimsonNoble, Balabalabagan, and askriven-the-exile. Special thanks to CrimsonNoble because he was writing a Riven/Irelia soulmarks AU and graciously allowed me to pilfer his idea.

* * *

 **As the Night Falls**

 **Act One: In Light**

 **Chapter One**

* * *

 _Exile_ is not quite the word to describe Katarina's situation. Should she turn her horse around and ride back to Noxus, no one would stop her at the Red Gates. No guards would attempt to lay hands on her. High Command would not part her head from her shoulders.

Her father, however, would close the door of their family home in her face.

A fate worse than the bite of an axe.

 _Failure_ does not befit a Du Couteau. Having _failed_ she is not welcome home for the foreseeable future.

Katarina scowls. Beneath her, her horse, a chestnut mare, snorts in agitation. Katarina inhales deeply through her nose and then breathes out, slow. She eases her grip on the reins and wills herself to relax. Taking a waterskin from her saddlebags, she raises it to her lips. The water is cool, even though it's around midday. It's the last days of winter, the early days of spring. The rivers have swelled with melt from the distant mountains and the rains are beginning to fall. It will be warm soon.

At least there's that. At least in her not-exile, she doesn't have to freeze. For the moment, her customary black leathers leave her somewhat colder than she'd like. When summer comes, should she still be out on the plains when summer comes, she'll be uncomfortable but but not miserable. She hopes.

By her reckoning, she'll arrive at the camp of the Second Army sometime today or tomorrow. It's late enough in the year that they've moved from their winter quarters at a fort set some distance away from the front up to the Adige River, the river that most men agree marks the border between Noxus and Demacia.

There's already been one major engagement of the season and the army now waits to repel further enemy incursion.

Katarina left the dense forests of Noxian pines behind days ago. The dark trees have given way to the seemingly endless plain that is the border region. The grass has some green to it but it's still mostly dry and dead; there's just enough for her horse to graze.

On the plains, you can see for miles. The sky above is a monotonous grey that casts an awful glare on everything and makes her squint. The air is dry.

It's hard to be certain out here how far she's come or how far left she has to go. She can't see the camp yet, so she thinks that tomorrow is a more likely arrival than today.

The Second Army is commanded by Darius - or so the reports say. In a bout of fervor, he apparently murdered his predecessor and took control of the army by right of strength. A bold move that High Command applauds. But it does not applaud enthusiastically. High Command is far more worried than impressed by this man's display of Noxian values. And so it falls to Katarina to ascertain his motives and his likely direction. To observe him. And to remind him that High Command is watching.

Ostensibly, she is there to offer her services.

She is the second best blade in Noxus. And she's been reduced to babysitting.

Her father's instructions following the incident had been to accept the assignment from High Command to go out to the backwater of the Demacian front and not come back until she was _less of a disgrace_.

That night, Katarina camps without a fire, beneath bright stars.

The stars are, maybe, the one good thing about being expelled from the city. Even from atop the citadel of High Command you can't see the stars in Noxus on most nights. Industrial smog blots out everything. As a child, Katarina learned the shapes of the stars on the Du Couteau's country estate some distance from the city, but it's been a long time since the family has traveled together to the quiet villa.

Serving Noxus is world-consuming work – work that no Du Couteau shirks from.

It's too cold to be comfortable, even in her bedroll. The ground is hard and rocky. Katarina finds the closest thing she can to a soft patch to lay herself down on and sleeps, shivering.

Fuck the great outdoors.

Fuck everything, really.

Katarina wakes the next morning as the sun is just starting to light the distant sky. Rising early is a discipline, one she learned at an early age. She's stiff from the early spring chill, but in the course of decamping she warms. She slips her horse a dried apple from her bags as she switches halter for bridle and secures the rest of the tack.

Katarina knows that she is not the most reasonable of riders and the horse has put up with her for a week and a half. She's glad that she didn't have to walk all the way out to the camp of the Second Army. If she weren't… herself, she'd have named the horse by now. But she is who she is so the horse remains nameless.

She mounts up and heads out.

The horse and Katarina come within sight of the army camp a little after noon, judging by the sun.

It's a sprawling affair, a city of tents stretching out perhaps a mile wide from Katarina's view. A few tents here and there fly flags that mark that they belong to the commander of a particular company. Katarina's still too far off to make out the details of any of them - not that they matter. She's read High Command's dossier on the Second Army several times now. Unlike the First or the Fifth, the Second has no companies of particular note.

Were it not for Darius - even in spite of Darius - the Second is a footnote in the eyes of High Command. An army whose sole purpose is to protect the various crossings over the Adige River.

There's little wood on the plains so instead of proper walls the camp has a broad trench and a low earthen rampart. Sentries sit on top of the rampart. As soon as they see Katarina, they stand and pass some message off into the camp proper.

Katarina straightens in the saddle but doesn't change pace or make any move to hail the camp. She's a lone rider in black coming from the direction of the city. She couldn't be any more clearly an agent of High Command. It's unlikely that they will try to shoot her. And if they do - she is the second best blade in Noxus.

Katarina is not arrogant. She is confident. And her confidence is well founded.

Her directive - babysit the general - is, however, not one that will be welcomed, she thinks. First impressions count. There's no need to debase herself with waving and shouting. She's confident - but deterring challenges is as important as winning them. Even the best fighters eventually find themselves unlucky.

She makes it to the camp walls and through them without any difficulty. When the sentries hail her, she identifies herself simply. She is a messenger from High Command.

Katarina dismounts. She takes her saddlebags and slings them over her shoulder, then offers her reins to the nearest soldier. He's shorter than her - which is no surprise. Katarina is exceptionally tall. He's also well-muscled and doesn't look particularly intelligent. It might be a side effect of having shaved his head so closely that it seems to shine even under the dull grey sky. In any case, he looks easily bullied. "Where is the general?" Katarina demands.

The soldier tilts his head in the direction of the center of camp where a large canvas tent with a tattered flag fluttering from its peak. The flag is the red axe of Noxus on a black field. "That way, sir," the soldier says. He blinks. "Ma'am."

Dumb as a brick. Typical.

"Take care of the horse," Katarina orders. The soldier has rolled over and showed his belly. He didn't even try to ask who she was. And this is the army that produced a murderous beast of a general bent on traditional Noxian values? Unlikely.

Katarina strides through the camp on her way to the general's tent. She takes long steps, trying to discretely stretch. Riding all morning has left her with a bevy of minor cramps but she doesn't want to stop and work them out now. She has an image to create and maintain.

The camp smells of horse shit and man sweat and gods know what else. It is an offensive odor.

The ground on which Katarina walks was maybe once covered in grass like the rest of the plain, but now it's been churned up by so many feet that it's bare dirt - mud at some point, now dried to show the occasional bootprint as the land waits for a rain.

Men sit about gambling over cards and dice. They've little else to do. They stare at her as she passes - the first thing outside their routine they've seen in weeks, no doubt.

She ignores them.

The general's tent is large but not ostentatious. Because of the tattered flag she likely could have found her way to it without directions, but had it not had the flag she'd never have been able to pick it out from the rest. It's less than what she'd expect of a general.

The guards at the entrance to the tent are more alert and assertive than the man she'd left with her horse. There are two of them, both large men - Noxus has few small men - clad in black plate armor with a smear of green paint running in a vertical line along the right side of their helmets. The green paint marks their company. Green is traditionally the color of Noxus' heavy infantry, the men who push the front and center of the line in a battle. Katarina hasn't been bothered to study the companies of the Second though, so she can't say what this particular green company calls itself.

Both guards hold spears - badly. Katarina thinks that they're not accustomed to using polearms. If she wanted, she could knock their weapons from their hands before they even knew what she was doing. No, they are definitely not pikemen. The swords at their sides, however, look well-worn. The spears then are ceremonial and the men have only recently been made the general's guards.

One of the men steps forward, blocking Katarina's way. "You need to wait," he says. "The commander is busy." The way he says it isn't particularly disrespectful, but his words can only be taken as a challenge.

"Do I?" Katarina asks. As she speaks, she raises her left hand as if she's about to shove him, and then quickly darts to the right. She sidesteps the guard easily. His fellow is too surprised to intervene, to stop her from entering into the tent.

Even carrying her saddlebags, it's not much of a challenge.

At least the guards tried.

The tent is dark, lit by what sun shines through the canvas ceiling. Because she had to slip the men outside, Katarina didn't have a chance to keep an eye closed to help adjust to the change in light. It's no matter though. She can see everything she needs to.

There are two people in the tent, standing close together near a table strewn with maps. Both wear the plain black uniform of a field officer. Neither appear startled to see her. They surely had word of her arrival as soon as the sentries caught sight of her..

Katarina quickly takes in the rest of the tent. It's bare of every luxury she's come to associate with the ranks of the generals. There's an armor stand that seems to bend beneath the weight of the plate armor hung on it and the enormous axe leaning up against it. There's a closed trunk, probably where the maps live when they're not out on the table. And then there's a bedroll. The general doesn't even have a bed.

Of the two officers, one is a man and one is a woman. That makes identifying the general simple. He's the hulking one with the dour face that must surely have gotten stuck like that. He's either old enough or tired enough that his hair has started to grey and there's a deep scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Her respect for the man rises infinitesimally.

Katarina wouldn't mind earning such a scar herself. It speaks of danger and strength in a primal language all Noxus knows.

The woman could also be described as hulking - if she wasn't so short. While Darius is Katarina's height, the woman is a full head shorter than them, but she's heavily muscled. In addition to being short, she has shockingly white hair and piercing amber eyes. None of these things is particularly Noxian and Katarina thinks that she probably has at least one parent from somewhere else. If she looked Noxian, she'd be handsome. She doesn't look Noxian, and so she's exotically handsome. There's a splash of green on her right shoulder. She's the commander of the guards outside.

The guards no longer outside.

Katarina hears the two men clatter in behind her, but she's already stepped beyond their immediate reach. She doubts that they'll try to follow after her and grab her when she's already halfway to the Darius and the female officer. It would only make them look even more incompetent than they've already shown themselves to be. Proving her correct, the guards stop just inside the entrance.

Darius and the woman share a look between them. "Dismissed," the woman says curtly. Her voice is low and rough.

Katarina wonders how hard she has to try to make her voice sound so decidedly unfeminine.

The soldiers leave. The woman does not. If she's the commander of the general's guard, there's a good chance she's his second. She's not as old as Darius but she's appreciably older than Katarina. She's spent so much time in the sun that her exact age is hard to read - perhaps late twenties or even early thirties. Young, for a commander. She stands to Darius' right, arms crossed over her chest. From the way her eyes move, she is clearly sizing Katarina up, though she's not holding herself as if she expects a fight. Katarina notes that she wears a glove on her right hand but not on her left. There are many reasons to wear gloves, few to wear a glove on only one hand. More likely than not, her mark is on her right hand.

Some people don't like showing their marks, almost as if by covering them they can protect some piece of themselves.

This is a nonsense thought. The entire point of marks is that they be seen and recognized.

If her mark's location on her hip didn't make it impractical, Katarina would bare hers to the world. It is her – all graceful sweeping lines that mimic the flow of a blade in motion - and she is proud.

This woman commander, this general's second, hides her voice and hides her mark. Katarina might ask what sort of woman she is, but Katarina already knows: despite her muscle - weak.

"What does High Command want?" Darius asks. He crosses his arms over his chest. The movement makes him seem to occupy even more space than he already does. It doesn't seem as though he means to be intimidating, merely, it's a motion of habit.

He's straightforward. Again, Katarina's respect for him grows ever so slightly.

Katarina is not enlisted and thus Darius is not her superior. She does not salute. She drops her saddlebags on the ground and then chooses a wide stance, clasping her hands behind her back. Deferential but not subservient. "High Command sends its congratulations, general," she says. She speaks quickly, businesslike. There are many ways to take respect for oneself. Speech is one. "I am here to assist you in your… transition."

"Don't need help," Darius replies.

Katarina doesn't bother arguing. There's no need. "I'll be here, should you require anything," she says.

Darius grunts. Actually _grunts_ as if grunting is somehow communicative of anything except insecure masculinity.

He's a caricature of a Noxian general. It's ridiculous - and even that thought feels somehow redundant.

Darius and the woman both look at each other at the same time. Something passes between them. The woman offers the general the slightest of shrugs. Darius makes a sort of low choked sound. The woman shrugs again, more obvious this time. Darius sighs.

Katarina glances at Darius' right hand. It's just a hand. No mark.

"Your name," Darius grumbles.

"Katarina Du Couteau," Katarina replies smoothly. She says her first name quickly, her family name slowly. She gives weight to what matters most.

"The quartermaster is the tent next door. He'll give you a tent if you don't have one. Pitch it somewhere out of the way," Darius says.

Katarina can hear what is unsaid. _And stay out of the way_.

"If you need anything," Darius continues, "Don't come to me. Bother Riven." He jerks his head towards the woman beside him – Riven, it would seem.

Riven who, Katarina can only assume, has indicated some sort of support for Katarina's tenure in the camp.

Riven's expression, mostly unreadable throughout the exchange, finally betrays something: annoyance. There's the slightest shift in her weight as she turns just enough to glance at Darius out of the corner of her eye.

"Or don't," Darius amends. "We're busy."

This Riven doesn't respect her. And neither does Darius.

Such a situation cannot be allowed to continue and even now Katarina's mind turns, formulating a plan.

But Katarina has been riding half the day, has been traveling near to two weeks. Now is not the time to correct matters. That doesn't mean she has to cede ground though. "Sir," she says, speaking slower than she had before and giving a very shallow bow. It's all calculated to be politely condescending. She's banking on Darius and Riven being too much soldiers to recognize it for what it is until she's already gone. And when they do recognize it, it will fester to no end.

That Katarina's younger sister is known for her mind games doesn't mean that Katarina isn't also adept at them.

Without asking leave to go, Katarina picks up her bags, turns, and walks out of the tent.


	2. In Light: Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you to my betas, to you readers, and especially everyone who left a review. Y'all are all great. I hope you like Katariven because the Katariven starts here and it's never going to stop. Enjoy!

* * *

 **As the Night Falls**

 **Act One: In Light**

 **Chapter Two**

* * *

Katarina waits three days.

She acquaints herself with the army. She bothers neither Darius nor Riven.

In those three days, she gets to know a few men in the camp, though not well. Only well enough to discreetly mine them for information about the general and his second.

His second is the key to Katarina's place in the sprawling city of tents that is the camp.

It is an interesting picture the men of the army paint.

The green company of the general's guards and of Riven is called Fury Company. Katarina was correct to have identified them as the elite heavy infantry of the army. Before Darius killed his predecessor, he was the commander of Fury Company and Riven was his first lieutenant. Upon becoming general, he promoted her.

A clean enough sequence.

He has a brother who might have inherited the command but the brother is in Noxus. This, Katarina knew from High Command's briefing. What she didn't know was that the brother, Draven, is there because Darius ordered him there. Ordered him to _get out of the way_ , as the soldiers of the camp tell it. Draven's inability to best Riven was also never in doubt.

Interesting.

But the most interesting point – or, the point Katarina knows High Command will care the most about – is that there's discontent in the ranks. Darius' predecessor was weak and a coward. The entire army knew it. But many men liked him anyway. He coddled them. When Darius summarily executed him and took command on the battlefield, the army followed to victory, but in the aftermath everyone is on edge.

Darius' company, Fury Company, thinks him a fine and deserving leader. But the others? Not so much.

Several commanders, in particular Kvellin of Dead Hand, the white company that makes up the bulk of the army's general infantry, were good friends of the old general. What's more, there's a sense that Riven, young as she is, should not stand as second for the army. But these dissenters only grumble. They've challenged no one. Not Riven. Not Darius. And so the delicate hierarchy stands.

No general of the Second Army can stand without the support of Fury Company. It would seem, too, that the support of Fury Company is all a general of the Second Army needs.

All of this, Katarina writes into a report and dispatches back to High Command with the message runner who accompanies the supply train that arrives from the Adige River Fort every other day. The supply lines stretch all the way back to the city. Even so far out on the border, the army is fed by the machinery of empire.

Perhaps Darius will require her aid after all. Time will tell. She has no intention of lending it if he doesn't ask, however.

As for the nature of the relationship between the general and his second is - no one will give Katarina a straight answer. She thinks it's because they either don't know or don't understand. Half the men Katarina speaks to think they're screwing each other. The other half swear that they're not. No one from Fury Company, the men who might know best, will say anything either way. Katarina is an outsider and they don't trust her.

This, to their credit, is a laudable instinct.

Their mistrust of her could very well someday save their lives.

In any case, Riven and Darius do not share a mark. That much is clear. Riven's mark is, as Katarina suspected, hidden beneath her glove on her right hand. No one has seen Darius' mark. It's rumored he doesn't have one.

But such gossip, while interesting, is not what Katarina _needs_.

What she needs is to know how to fight them.

None of the dissenters have challenged them. But Katarina intends to. Or, she intends to challenge one of them.

Katarina haunts the packed earth yard that serves the camp as an assembly place and also a training ground.

While other parts of the camp still show some dead grass, so many feet have trampled this place that only bare dirt remains. Racks of wooden training weapons and iron weights ring the area, propped up against empty crates, the refuse of the camp kitchens. Here, men train in everything from sparing with staves to wrestling to simple strength exercises.

There are many similar training yards in the city. The difference, Katarina thinks, is that in Noxus proper the men are well fed and thus less pleasant to stare at. That said, while the view is nice, Katarina keeps her distance. The border soldiers tend to smell awful and they're frequently missing more teeth than she finds quite comfortable. Often men will approach her, but she either ignores them or, if they are persistent, _encourages_ them to leave. It doesn't stop the benignly curious from bothering her. It does, however, successfully deter a certain subset of annoyance.

She never sees Darius on the yard, but Riven arrives first thing in the morning every day. Mostly she drills, going through forms with a sword that looks to be bigger than she is. From a distance, it looks less like a sword and more like an enormous steel club. Riven stays on the yard till noon, then breaks for lunch, then comes back again for the entirety of the afternoon before heading to the river a half-mile from the camp to clean up. It's as if she has nothing better to do than train. Considering the army has been camped in the same place for some time and will remain there for a while yet, this is a not unlikely conclusion.

Katarina, begrudgingly, is impressed. Insecure though Riven is, her insecurity doesn't hamper her ability with a blade and she has _discipline_. Most men in camp pass the time gambling pennies and fucking each other in their tents and in the alleyways between their tents. But not Riven.

Sometimes another soldier will ask Riven to spar. When they spar, it's with wooden training swords. The skill difference between her and everyone she works with is as wide as the plain they're camped on. They fight as hard as they can. Riven uses them like they're training dummies that occasionally change position for her benefit.

Other commanders train in the drill yard, but there's an unspoken rule that the commanders never spar with one another. Such a combat could only serve to destabilize the fragile balance of power in the camp.

Riven knows that Katarina watches her. They make eye contact on more than one occasion. And, to Katarina's endless frustration, Katarina is always the one to look away first. The eye contact – when Katarina does it, she's seeking to assert herself. When Riven does it, she's actually looking at Katarina. There's curiosity in her amber eyes and nothing of fight or fire.

It's hard to play power games, much less win at them, when the other party doesn't feel compelled to participate.

This is irksome. Katarina finds herself perched on the crates at the edge of the yard, staring and waiting for Riven to look her way. Surely, eventually, one of these times, Riven will run out of curiosity and will finally engage in contest with Katarina. Surely.

Surely never comes.

And in all of this, Riven never approaches Katarina.

Whenever Katarina looks away, Riven goes back to her training with a single-minded devotion. It's as if there's nothing else in her world and Katarina is forgotten as soon as she lifts her sword again.

The absence of interest galls. Moreover, it is unsettling. Katarina is not used to being ignored, except by her sister.

Riven is nothing like Cassiopeia.

Riven is an enigma.

Given that Riven is such an enigma, had Katarina any less confidence in herself than she has, she would likely rethink her approach. But while Riven herself is an enigma, her physical strength is clear and three days is more than enough time for Katarina to learn what she needs.

Katarina proceeds with all due caution - which is to say, no caution at all.

The challenge is always in steel and fought for blood.

But Katarina is as she is.

The challenge is a game.

On the morning of the fourth day, she makes her move.

When Riven is finished with her warm up, Katarina pushes herself off the crate she's been leaning against and crosses the yard. She herself rose before the sun and jogged the perimeter of the camp before running through several sets of drills to prepare herself. Her skill is not effortless, but she prefers that people believe it to be.

As Katarina walks towards Riven, out of the corner of her eye she sees the soldiers who've come to train cease their own exercises to watch her, the outsider, as she strides through their midst.

Good.

She wants to be seen winning.

There's a thin sheen of sweat on Riven's brow, despite the late winter nip in the air, but her breathing is slow and even. She shoulders her enormous blade. Her amber eyes sweep over Katarina, lingering at times on the various visible blades Katarina carries before finally resting on Katarina's face.

It's that same damn look that Riven uses whenever they happen to lock eyes. Curious. Searching. Unassuming.

Katarina comes to a halt just close enough that Riven needs to tilt her head up ever so slightly to meet her eyes, but not so close that she can be said to be encroaching on Riven's space.

She has spent three days planning for this. Everything is calculated. Even her clothing.

Normally she wears a black leather jerkin, double layered, a soft lambskin lining, a tough outer layer of buckskin, and steel plates sewn between the two. In Noxus, it's weight is a great comfort. In the unlikely event someone manages to take her unsuspecting, her back is protected. Today, however, she's left it in her tent. Riven trains wearing cotton trousers and a light, sleeveless shirt. And so Katarina wears trousers and a shirt and not her jacket. She doesn't want the appearance of an advantage and she suspects the jerkin would do little against Riven's gigantic sword in any case.

What's more, though Katarina rarely wears gloves, preferring finer control of her weapons to protection for her hands, today she wears a single black glove. Mimicking Riven, she's worn it on her right hand.

Slowly, keeping eye contact with Riven but using movements exaggerated enough that it's clear what she's doing, Katarina pulls the glove from her hand, raises it up, and then drops it at Riven's feet.

It makes hardly a noise as it hits the ground.

When Katarina smirks, it's genuine. She has orchestrated everything. It feels good executing her plans.

She's about to put this backwater commander in her place.

If Katarina looks predatory, it's because she is.

Riven hesitates for a moment, staring at the glove on the ground. She briefly looks back up to catch Katarina's gaze. Her brow is knit, she's frowning slightly, and there's a question in her amber eyes – _are you sure?_

Of course Katarina is damn sure. No one issues such a challenge without being sure. What's more, she's been planning this for days.

When Riven sighs, her shoulders visibly rise and fall. She runs a hand through her white hair. And then she kneels to pick up the glove.

It's a sight to be seen.

Riven's shirt shifts a little and in addition to her muscular arms, a bit of her back is visible as well. Something that Katarina hadn't noticed before is that Riven binds her chest. The bandages peak out from the armholes of her shirt.

Between Riven kneeling, the view of her back, and the idea of what's under her shirt –

It's distracting. Katarina can't afford to be distracted. She needs to win. She has bet her next several months, possibly her life, on the outcome of a duel. She has planned every movement.

Thoughts of pinning Riven down and fucking her need to wait.

Riven stands again - to Katarina it feels like it's been an eternity but it's only been a second, perhaps not even - and tucks Katarina's glove into her belt.

Challenge accepted.

The only respectable thing to do.

They will fight until someone yields or someone dies. The former, if Katarina's plan and execution are flawless. The latter, if something goes wrong.

If Riven hadn't accepted she would have looked weak in front of the entire camp. And weakness, as Darius proved so recently, is grounds for loss of command and summary execution.

Unless whatever Riven and Darius have would stay his hand? A thought for another time.

Without turning her back, Riven retreats several steps until she and Katarina stand some six paces apart. All around, the soldiers have cleared a large circle for them. There's a tense silence in the air, broken only by the soft clink of coins. The men are placing bets.

Riven's still frowning.

Six paces is a good distance for Riven with her greatsword but twice as far as Katarina would have liked. It's no matter though. Distance is control. Katarina can take it back.

Riven brings her sword down from her shoulder and settles into a standard guard position, gripping her blade with two hands. She's capable of wielding it with only one, even prefers to, but she's also ambidextrous. She can and does switch hands mid-combat. She's waiting to decide which hand to start out with.

It's an old Noxian strategy. A foundation, even. Never make a decision until you have to.

A cool breeze wends its way through the crowd around them. It runs ghostly fingers through Riven's white hair, but she hardly even blinks. She is calm. She is steady.

Katarina draws only one knife. She holds it in her right hand in front of her using a forward grip. As the challenger, the first attack is hers. While normally she would consider this an advantage, against an opponent like Riven who uses a large and somewhat slow weapon, she'd prefer a later start. She can engineer that though.

Too far away to strike, Katarina walks forward, every step measured. It's a simple technique. Riven has to respond to Katarina's tempo, giving Katarina the opportunity to speed up unexpectedly. Or - expectedly. Even if Riven doesn't respect her, Katarina has seen enough of Riven to respect the skill and experience behind that enormous sword.

Instead of moving to strike, Riven extends her blade, altering her zone of control.

It's not what Katarina wanted, but it's near enough. Katarina sidesteps the blade and closes distance quickly, bringing her blade around for an attack from the side. Riven pulls her sword back in a sweeping cut to close off a line of attack, finally choosing to wield it only in her left hand.

 _Expected._

Most men prefer their right hand.

Like Katarina, Riven is prideful.

Katarina's attack was a feint. When she's just barely outside of striking distance, she pivots, spinning and drawing a second blade to drive at Riven's other side.

Just as she'd planned.

In a flash, steel meets steel.

Riven's managed to recover and block in the single moment of pause that it took Katarina to unsheathe her other weapon.

Katarina has just enough time to recognize what's happened before she's on the defensive, ducking and weaving to avoid a deadly onslaught of fire-fast attacks. There's no room for surprise, disappointment, anything except staying alive.

By tradition the challenge is in live steel and often it proves fatal. Katarina's first attack, had it landed, would have been a serious injury but not a death sentence. She'd designed it that way. She'd had everything planned. _Everything_.

Perhaps she made a mistake.

The challenge is not actually a game.

Katarina should have known better.

They trade blows for what surely must be years, neither one quite managing to wrest the upper hand. Steel rings against steel in an erratic tempo as they both seek some advantage, any advantage.

As Katarina already knew, Riven's skill with her sword is impeccable. Her footwork, too, is flawless.

She's every bit Katarina's equal.

But she's not. They don't share a mark. They are not equals. This fight will have a winner and it will leave someone bleeding, maimed, perhaps dead.

Sweat pours down Katarina's face. Her shirt is drenched and it clings to her as she moves. Every breath comes as a ragged gasp.

Riven is doing much the same, perhaps a notch better. Her endurance is such that she can still raise her sword and cut cleanly - but not as swiftly as when she started.

Katarina sees nothing of the world around them. She sees nothing of the yard, of the audience, of anything but her opponent. Riven.

It's galling to think that Riven has kept pace with Katarina this entire time despite moving so much more weight. That Riven is _stronger_. Vexation spawns the seed of doubt. Doubt burns, drives Katarina to fight harder, faster. She is the second-best blade in Noxus. She's staked far too much on this challenge to do anything but win.

But she can't win unless she changes something, varies her tactic. Stupidity is trying the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

She's been playing Riven's game.

She needs to play hers.

Most fights progress in threes - the first time you move you let your opponent see, the second time you establish a pattern, the third time you break the pattern. It works on unskilled opponents or opponents too overwhelmed to analyze who can only react. Riven is neither of those things.

Against Riven, the first move is the pattern, the second move is the break.

Katarina slips just barely out of distance and then closes again, mimicking the beginning of their duel. She feints, pivots, spins - and then she releases her blade, hurling it at her opponent's face.

Riven inhales sharply. Surprise. She brings her sword up to block the projectile, but that leaves her side open.

Katarina goes for the kill.

She aims for just below Riven's ribcage, where the gut is soft and unprotected.

Riven catches the blade, grabs it in her free right hand. The razor edge of the weapon slices through her glove and bites into flesh.

But now Katarina's the one surprised - and now Riven lets go of her sword from her left hand and now she's got her hand wrapped around Katarina's throat and Katarina's back is on the ground and Riven is straddling her.

Riven's eyes burn with a chilling fury.

And Riven's grip is a vice, crushing - surely Katarina's throat is collapsing on itself, all the soft parts compressing down into some pulped mass pressed up against her spine in the back. Dark spots flare across Katarina's vision. Even so, her opponent's face, grim, cold, is etched into her mind.

Katarina's lungs need air, her brain needs blood. Riven is small, her hand is small, but Katarina's neck isn't particularly thick. Acting on instinct, she lets go of the knife that Riven's holding and uses that hand to claw at Riven's fingers. No sooner has she done that then there's a second hand, gloved, bloody, choking her.

Even as Katarina chokes, she rages. Her opponent didn't go her for her eyes, didn't go for her mouth. She went for the throat. She thinks she can take Katarina's submission without killing her by strangling her.

No.

Katarina carries more than two knives, always.

There's nothing she can do with them that will stop Riven cold. She doesn't have the right angle or leverage to get it through Riven's head and anything less won't kill fast enough to stop Riven from snapping her neck in retaliation.

The dark spots in Katarina's vision are getting bigger and there's a pressure in her head that's overwhelming.

Still, she slips a blade free from her belt and raises her it just enough to dig the tip into Riven's side, between two ribs, near as she can to the heart.

Riven missed her chance to go for the kill. Her own fault. For being weak.

If one of them dies, they'll both die.

Riven's face twists into an ugly snarl. Finally – finally her amber eyes answer Katarina's challenge.

Seconds pass and they feel like ten lifetimes, a hundred lifetimes.

If Riven doesn't relent soon, Katarina will drive her blade home. She's not weak.

And then the vice around her neck is gone.

Katarina's first breath is a great gasp - and it cuts short halfway, it hurts, hurts so much to breathe. She drops her knife so that she can get both hands to her neck, slipping in Riven's blood, as if she can pry her throat open again.

Riven sits back on her heels, stands. She looks down at Katarina, mouth set in a tight line. Sweat runs down her face to pool at her chin and drip to the ground. Moving slow, as if she can't make up her mind, she extends her left hand to Katarina, offering to help her up.

This is not the resolution Katarina wanted and it is not a possibility she ever contemplated. They do not share a mark. They are not equals. A _draw_ should have been unthinkable.

She still can't breathe well. She closes her eyes for a moment before rolling over and pushing herself up to her feet under her own power.

Riven can take her hand and go fuck herself with it.


	3. In Light: Chapter 3

**As the Night Falls**

 **Act One: In Light**

 **Chapter Three**

* * *

The swelling makes talking, swallowing, breathing so painful that Katarina contemplates putting herself out of her misery. The day after the fight is the worst of it. All through that day she doesn't come out of her tent.

She alternates sitting and lying down, eternally fuming.

It's claustrophobic. For most people, the wedge style tent would probably be more than enough room. It rises a little under seven feet at its peak, eight feet wide at the base, and another seven feet in depth. It was made for several men to share and Katarina has it all to herself. It ought to feel spacious. But she doesn't like being enclosed. It feels too much like imprisonment, even though it's self-imposed.

She failed to win her challenge. And then that smug backwater albino freak had the gall to offer her a hand up. And now she can't get Riven's face, with its bright amber eyes and slight frown, out of her head.

 _Licking her wounds_ doesn't begin to describe Katarina's state.

She does not pen any further report to High Command.

She doubts High Command will notice and if her father wants to know her sorry state, well, he doubtless has his own spies in the camp.

She's wont to continue to hide in her cramped quarters until it's time to return to Noxus, but she has only so much food in her bags and hunger drives her out eventually.

Having followed Darius' directions when she first arrived, Katarina's tent is in a distant corner of the camp. Small mercies. No one's around to see her when she crawls out into the noonday light. Unfortunately, the camp mess is in the center of the sprawling tent city and that means dragging herself past what feels like every soldier of the Second Army.

They stare.

Katarina pulls the collar of her black leather jerkin up, trying to hide the ugly finger-shaped bruises covering her neck. She's a daughter of Noxus. She is, among other things, prideful. Even sore and aching in her bones, she keeps her back straight and her head up.

No one points and no one laughs. The soldiers keep a respectful distance. Her performance in the challenge earned her that much, she thinks.

This doesn't change the fact that Katarina wants to go home.

The mess tent is one of the largest tents in the camp. Only the infirmary is of equal size. Beneath the canvas roof, wooden boards resting on raised earth serve as tables. The seats are dirt heaped up and covered with canvas. Light filters through the fabric ceiling. It's lunch time and the tent is near to full. The air is full of conversation and laughter. Near the entrance, cauldrons of something that resembles stew bubble, though Katarina is late and so there's not much left.

She wasn't planning on eating much anyway.

Sullen, Katarina doesn't say a word as she gets her bowl of army slop from the camp cook.

The food in the camp is edible. And that's the highest praise Katarina is willing to give it.

Still intent on avoiding the world, Katarina skulks to an empty table and sits to slowly choke down her lunch.

Swallowing is agonizing.

Katarina has barely managed the first spoonful of her slop when she's interrupted. A shadow falls over her bowl. She looks up.

It's Riven. Looking just like she has in Katarina's head for the past two days, except less sweaty and less disheveled.

Katarina glowers.

Riven ignores the warning and sits down across the makeshift table.

If Riven chooses to ignore Katarina's glaring, then Katarina will resolve to ignore Riven's existence.

Fair is fair.

Ignoring Riven is easier said than done - though Katarina also doesn't try very hard.

Riven isn't wearing a glove on her right hand today, and that's what catches Katarina's attention first. Bandages are wrapped around part of her hand, but not so much that her mark is entirely obscured. It is a growth of dark lines reaching from the back of her hand up to her mid-forearm, vine-like. Alive. Marks don't change, ever, but Katarina half wonders if Riven's mark grows when no one's looking. The skin under her mark is pale, far paler than the rest of her, likely from spending so long covered.

The second thing Katarina notices is that Riven's wearing her customary sleeveless shirt. Her arms are thick with muscle and she's lean enough that there's appreciable definition. She has the double-headed axe of Noxus branded into her right shoulder just like every other foot soldier in Noxus' armies. It's an old scar. She's served Noxus for a very long time.

Katarina's mouth is suddenly quite dry. She's horribly aware of her own breathing, her own heartbeat, her own everything. She scoops up a spoonful of slop and shoves it in her mouth with more force than is strictly necessary. Two days ago, Katarina had been thinking about what a great lay Riven probably is. She would probably still be thinking such thoughts if her mind hadn't decided to fade away into a white fuzz.

The last thing that Katarina notices is that Riven's bowl is half-empty already. She was eating somewhere else before she decided to intrude upon Katarina's seclusion.

Katarina forces herself through another painful swallow as she considers her options.

Is Riven worth words?

No.

"What do you want?" Katarina asks. In addition to her swollen throat feeling as if she's being strangled all over again, her voice sounds woefully weak. She hopes that there's enough bite in it to at least convey how little she wants Riven eating lunch with her.

Riven frowns like she's searching for words. Why she would be searching for words escapes Katarina. She as the one who came and sat down. Surely she must have had plans that extended beyond that.

Riven taps her spoon against her bowl once, lightly. "Are you well?" she asks. Every word feels like it takes her ten years to say it, she speaks so slowly.

Katarina has the collar of her jerkin pulled up, but it's not enough to hide the bruises Riven left. She scowls. Talking hurts.

Riven nods and stands. She picks up her bowl and walks away.

Katarina stares at her departing back.

What the hell was that?

Whatever the hell it was, it repeats the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that - every day at lunch, the same conversation, the same abrupt departure, the same sense of overwhelming confusion.

Katarina pretends that after the first few times the white fuzz in her head clears. It doesn't.

It continues like this until nearly a week later when, finally, the bruises having mostly faded to nothing, Riven asks her question and Katarina replies, "More or less."

It doesn't hurt so much to speak anymore. Riven has gone back to wearing a glove.

By now, Katarina has memorized the graceful vines of Riven's mark that the bandage had left visible. Idly, she imagines that she can see it beneath the brown leather of the glove. She imagines, too, that she knows what the rest of Riven's mark might look like. More vines, she thinks, perhaps leaves – or maybe roots? Something plant-like.

"Spar with me after lunch," Riven says. She says it like an order, but it's a question. It has to be. Riven has no authority to order Katarina about. Katarina is not a soldier and so Riven has no command over her. And when they fought, Riven retreated and thus she earned nothing.

Kataria would hope Riven understands this. And, in case she doesn't, Katarina says back, "I'll think about it."

Riven tilts her head to the side for a moment, contemplative. And _then_ she nods, stands, and leaves.

Against her better judgment, when Katarina finishes eating, she hands her bowl back to the camp cook and heads to the training yard. The Second Army is boring. She has minimal interest in "observing" Darius. As far as she can tell, he spends most of his time in his tent brooding. Sparring is something to do.

Riven is already there. She's putting some inferior through his paces. When she notices Katarina approaching, she kicks the man's legs out from under him and taps his head lightly with her wooden training sword. The entire time, she's looking at Katarina, not her supposed opponent.

Riven does not offer him a hand up.

He picks himself up and slinks away, covered in dirt.

Katarina takes her time crossing the yard.

When she's close enough that her intent is clear but not so close that anything can begin, Katarina comes to a halt. Slowly, she rolls her neck, rolls her shoulders, twists at the hips to check if she's tight.

She's slightly tight, but after spending a week skulking in her tent, it could be far worse. In the days since she was last here, the world has warmed considerably. Spring has come. She flexes her fingers as she moves her arms this way and that, encouraging her blood to liven. It's not a full routine by any means but she thinks it will suffice.

Her trainers tell her that when she's old, she'll regret not warming up more thoroughly.

Katarina is twenty-two. She will not be old for a very long time.

As Katarina finishes evaluating her condition and loosening her muscles, Riven closes the distance between them. She has her training sword in her right hand, a wooden blade just as large as her steel one, and a pair of wooden knives in her left.

Katarina's eyes narrow. In the days she spent watching Riven and the other men of the army practice here, she never saw wooden knives, much less a pair of them so similar to the two blades she primarily relies on.

From the tilt of Riven's head, it's clear she can see that Katarina is staring at the knives. "I made them," Riven says, as if that explains everything. It doesn't. But even if Katarina wanted an explanation, she doesn't feel like asking for one.

Katarina takes the practice weapons from Riven. She twirls one, then the other. They're heavier than she expected. The wood itself, she thinks, is heavier because she doesn't see any evidence of lead weights added. They're also thicker than her steel weapons - wood as thinly crafted as her knives' blades would be too brittle for anything save decoration. The weight of them isn't perfect, but it's not terrible. She can work with them, maybe even throw them well enough to hit a target.

If pressed, Katarina might even compliment the workmanship.

Riven, however, doesn't seem invested in her creations or in reaping any praise for them. She's already backing up to set the starting distance.

Katarina sets her armored jacket down a few paces away. Last time she didn't want it, this time, she thinks, she won't need it. She returns to her mark and settles into a defensive stance. Her message is clear. Riven can come to her this time.

Riven obliges.

Their first few rounds go quickly. The wooden weapons encourage more aggression than steel - a mistake is unlikely to end in grievous injury. Control is important but it's not the overriding priority. There's room to gamble. As a result, they go back and forth, sometimes Riven landing a touch, sometimes Katarina, starting, stopping, then resetting before they settle into an even and continuous rhythm of attacks, parries, dodges, feints.

It reminds Katarina of sparring with her brother, though Talon isn't as skilled as Riven.

It's fun.

They exchange blows for - for a long time. They don't stop until Katarina breaks distance to wipe the beads of sweat that roll down her face with the back of her hand. Instead of taking advantage of the pause, Riven steps back as well, letting her sword rest against her shoulder. Riven is just as drenched in sweat as Katarina, if not more. Her entire shirt has turned color from it, her white hair is dripping, and her skin glistens in the late afternoon sun.

Katarina doesn't notice that she's staring until Riven is standing in front of her, offering her a waterskin.

Katarina hastily shoves her training weapons into her belt and takes the water, bringing it to her lips and tilting her head back to pretend she wasn't caught distracted. In any case, she was parched and she would have gulped the water down even if she weren't trying to save face.

As Katarina drinks, a soldier approaches. He's of average height and wearing the uniform of a lieutenant of Fury Company, though he's left his black jacket unbuttoned and his shirt isn't tucked in. He's got long hair, but it's been tied back in a messy horsetail. He might be Riven's age, or a bit older. His bushy brown beard ages him and makes it hard to tell. "Commander," he says. He doesn't salute.

Riven looks at the officer but doesn't say anything. She waits.

"The big guy wants you," the lieutenant says. He jerks his thumb to indicate the general direction of Darius' tent. "He said it was important but not important enough to hurry."

Riven turns to Katarina, nods, and then walks away.

Riven leaves Katarina with her waterskin, the wooden knives, and an overwhelming sense of confusion. Was Riven being rude on purpose or does she not know how to politely exit an interaction?

As if reading Katarina's mind, the lieutenant turns to her. Up close, Katarina's fairly sure he's younger than Riven, but not by much. He's less weathered. "She's bad at people but not usually that bad," he says. "Must like you."

Katarina finishes draining the waterskin. She holds it loosely at her side. "What does she do when she doesn't like someone?"

This question draws a chuckle. "They find out," the officer says.

Katarina drops the wooden knives off in her tent and takes the waterskin with her when she goes to clean up. Her lips taste like salt and she's sure that when her shirt dries it will be stiff, crusty, and smell like armpit.

The camp is pitched just under half a mile from the river, close enough to use the waters but not so close that the ground is mud. Hopefully, also not so close that they'll be caught by any sudden spring flood. Winter's not yet gone; the river waters are teeth-chattering cold. Most of the soldiers prefer to be filthy than to brave the river. It's disgusting and they're cowards.

By that measure, Katarina might be a disgusting coward too. She's been here only twice before: the day she arrived at the camp and the day Riven nearly killed her in the challenge. Otherwise, she hasn't been doing anything that got her sweaty enough to warrant braving the river.

Stripping down and wading into the icy water, Katarina lets out an involuntary whimper. Thankfully, the river is loud and the few men also washing up in the late afternoon light can't hear her.

Katarina knows that several of the soldiers are stealing glances at her - or just staring. She lets them. She's not ashamed of her body. She's proud of it. Others are free to appreciate, so long as they do so respectfully. She's feeling generous - and also in a hurry to get the fuck out of the water - and so she decides that today they're being respectful.

If she's going to spend gods know how long out with the army, she might need to do something about the situation eventually. But not now.

Now, there's the business of the river.

And she'll just have to hope they don't see her shivering.

In Noxus, there are bathhouses. And in the bathhouses, there are great pools of heated water and there are rooms filled with steam and there's _soap_. And the Du Couteau mansion has furnaces in the kitchens so that the family doesn't have to go to the public houses for a hot bath.

The Demacian border is _shit_.

Clutching her washcloth in one hand, Katarina forces herself out into the water until she's waist deep. With a deep bracing breath, she steels herself and then dunks the rest of her under.

She's back up in a bare second, hugging herself as her teeth chatter uncontrollably.

Fuck this river. _Fuck it_.

Deciding that she's either clean enough or as clean as she's going to get, she immediately makes a beeline back for the shore where she's left her clothes in a heap. She hasn't used her washcloth and she still smells like sweat, but that's fine.

It's not until she's standing on the shore that she realizes what she's forgotten: her clean clothes.

Well. _Fuck that too_.

Her shirt and trousers and socks all get dunked in the river and then wrung out. It's not the same as a proper wash, but it's the best she can do. And it's cleaning up that doesn't involve swimming in ice. When she's done, she puts the shirt and trousers back on. She gathers up her socks and boots and the now refilled waterskin and carry them in her arms back to the camp.

About halfway there, she meets Riven going in the opposite direction.

Their eyes meet.

Katarina slows to a stop and holds out the waterskin.

Riven stops as well to take it. Her gloved hand brushes against Katarina's bare hand in the exchange and a flare of heat surges through Katarina's body.

Katarina clears her throat - but she doesn't have anything to say. She readjusts her grip on her boots, then begins to walk again.

As she goes, she can feel the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She thinks Riven has stayed still to watch her go instead of continuing to shuffle on towards the river.

Katarina doesn't realize that the feeling in her chest is _victory_ until she notices that her mouth feels stretched and tight because she's _smiling_.

 _Victory_ gets her all the way back to her tent before the chill sets in. Cold river, wet clothes, early spring. Wilderness survival is skill that Katarina has learned in her training but not something she has often practiced. She changes into dry clothes, but it hardly feels enough. Even her bones feel frigid.

If Cassiopeia were present, Katarina thinks, her sister would laugh at her - right up until Cassiopeia broke a nail, and then it would be Talon chuckling at them both. And then the General would swoop in and lecture them all about their various failings as his bushy mustache bristled as he himself suppressed laughter.

That's how it should have been, if the General's sense of humor hadn't died with Katarina's mother.

Katarina lets out a violent sigh and returns to thoughts of freezing to death. They're more pleasant than thinking about her family. By far.

She's in the middle of reviewing everything she knows about hypothermia and imagining what a slow death feels like when a voice from outside her tent interrupts her rumination.

"Du Couteau."

Female voice, rough and low - Riven, has to be.

"Yeah?" Katarina replies.

A gloved hand thrusts a thick wool blanket through the closed flap of Katarina's tent. Katarina's sense of propriety manages to make her wait an entire half second before she snatches the blanket and wraps it around herself. It's grey and ugly, but Katarina counts it as a blessing all the same.

"I'm taking a squad out tomorrow morning," Riven says from outside the tent. "Three day mission. Riding light. Meet at dawn by the main gate."

With no one around to see her, Katarina doesn't bother hiding surprise from her face. She hadn't expected to actually be asked to do anything.

But this is a good thing. Something to do. Something to keep from dying of boredom.

"I'll be there," she says.

There's no reply.

For a long time, there's no reply.

Adjusting the blanket, Katarina crawls forward to poke her head out of her tent.

Riven is gone.

If anything kills Katarina in her assignment out in this backwater hellhole, it's going to be that woman.

But at least now she can be warm.


	4. In Light: Chapter 4

**As the Night Falls**

 **Act One: In Light**

 **Chapter Four**

* * *

Katarina is up, dressed, has retrieved rations from the quartermaster and has retrieved her mare from the camp horsepen long before dawn arrives. There's no small amount of adrenaline fueling her. When she gets to the gate, Riven is the only one there as early. She wears dull steel plate armor, though it's a half-plate instead of a full. Traveling on horseback with half-plate can be wearisome to the horse, traveling long distances with full plate requires a second pack horse. A grey stallion stands beside Riven, eating slices of dried apple from her hand. The horse is far, far larger than she is.

Katarina hasn't seen a single apple in the camp in all the time she's been here. Perks of being a senior officer, she supposes.

Katarina's mare spots a clump of grass that has avoided the churning of boots as men go in and out of the camp. The horse walks towards the grass and Katarina lets herself be lead. If they're going on a long ride, it's best that the mare eat while it can.

Riven and Katarina both wait in silence as the sky brightens and the rest of the squad Riven has selected assemble. There's very little chatter. What conversations do transpire are muted by the dense river fog that coats the camp. A few men yawn and wipe sleep from their eyes. There are fifteen soldiers, not counting Riven or Katarina - a sizable force.

About half of the soldiers are from her Fury Company. The rest are from another company, marked with a blue sigil. Cavalry. Blaze Company, if Katarina's memory serves.

The men of Fury Company, like Riven, wear infantryman's half-plate armor. Instead of wearing their helmets, they keep them tied to their saddles. When they mount up, none of them, excepting Riven, look particularly comfortable in the saddle. The soldiers from the other company are dressed far lighter, their only armor being boiled leather cuirasses and thick steel greaves. They carry bows and arrows and spears compared to Fury Company's standard hand-and-a-half swords. Not surprisingly, their horses are smaller and more nimble than the ones Fury Company ride.

If Riven weren't Darius' right hand, this assignment, whatever it is, would likely be lead by a commander of the cavalry group, Katarina thinks. Fury Company is only accompanying them as backup muscle.

Katarina has made all of these evaluations even before they pass the main gate of the camp and turn west to follow the river.

It's only when they've gone well out of earshot of the camp that Riven starts to explain what it is they're doing.

A group of scouts are two days late reporting in. The only reason anyone can think of is Demacians. _Bluebacks_ , as the rank soldiers call them, when they're feeling generous. More often - _goldbellies_.

There's a bridge up the river where the scouts were posted. It's the only thing of strategic value in that direction, the only reason the Demacians would have to be there. And if the enemy are there, it's likely they're there in force.

As it stands, the Second Army is camped roughly halfway between the two main crossings of the Adige, ready to move to stop an incursion over either one. Before the army can move though, they need to know for sure that the Demacians have moved in force and it's not a feint.

It may soon be time to fight. But first, they need to find their scouts. They need to know more. To move the army to a post at the wrong crossing would be a disaster.

The plan is to ride out along the river. They'll keep going until they find their men or until they find Demacians.

There's some grumbling among the men of Fury Company at the news there's no fixed end to the riding, but it's mostly lost under the rumbling of hooves on the plain. The Blaze Company men laugh at the grumbling, but it's light-hearted. There's no bad blood between the two squads.

Katarina herself doesn't mind riding for long distances. If she did, she would have been even more miserable in her weeks of travel from the city to the camp. She's never been one to go riding across pastures for pleasure like Cassiopeia does, but Katarina was trained by the best horsemasters in Noxus and she knows how to hold herself in the saddle. She's several notches above mere competence.

Not having to concentrate on staying upright and on her horse affords Katarina ample time to observe the party's surroundings and the party itself.

They're riding near the river, but not so close that the horses have to deal with mud and riverstones and not so close that they have to make their way through the few gnarled trees that grow along the riverbanks. The grass they travel over is well on its way in turning from bone-yellow to green - the first tendrils of spring. Overhead, the sky promises it will be a clear and sunny day and already the morning fog is starting to dissipate.

Though they're traveling over plains, they're headed towards some hills. Behind the hills rise mountains. The scouts vanished somewhere near the hills or in them. It's an advantageous position for the Demacians. From the hills, you can probably see all the plains. From the plains, you can only see the first hill.

Katarina turns her attention towards the column she rides with.

Among the soldiers, Katarina recognizes only two faces. One is the lieutenant from the day before, the one who approached Riven at the end of their session. He's at the front of the group, riding alongside the only other person Katarina knows - Riven. The two of them are conversing. Katarina can't make out their words and her angle is wrong to read their lips, but from the way they hold themselves, it seems to be nothing serious.

Katarina clicks her tongue and taps her heels against the sides of her mare to order the horse to speed up slightly. She navigates through the rest of the party to draw up next to Riven, opposite the officer.

As she approaches, the conversation dies, quickly. Very quickly. It dies too quickly for it to have been about anything except Katarina.

Interesting.

The lieutenant nods to Riven and then has his horse slow so that he falls back in with the rest of the party, leaving Katarina and Riven alone at the front.

While the other men wear swords on their belts, Riven's sword is too large for such carriage. Instead, she has it balanced in her lap, a sheet of leather wrapped around the part of the blade that might knock up against her horse's neck. It's an awkward setup and it takes skill to execute. In addition to being a better swordsman, Riven's a better rider than most of her soldiers. In a fight, the reach of her sword is likely of great benefit compared to a smaller weapon, but so too is the risk of maiming her mount. However, Riven, doubtless, manages quite well fighting from the saddle.

Uncharacteristically, Katarina rides up to join Riven without a plan or much of a goal. So she improvises. "I'm curious. Where did you learn to fight?" Katarina asks.

Riven regards Katarina with something that resembles confusion. "The army," she says.

 _The army_ is both the most obvious and the least informative answer possible, all things considered. It's also exactly the answer Katarina deserved for asking such a vague and ill-formed question.

Katarina takes great pride in not being overly skilled in the art of conversation. There are times, however, when having some skill at it helps. In those times, she has a surefire method of fallback: what would Cassiopeia do?

"You fight better than everyone else who learned in _the army_ ," Katarina says. She drawls the last two words, letting them linger. She means to sound at ease, to sound curious, but only in passing. A breeze whispers through her hair and she turns towards it, letting it blow a few stray locks of red hair out of her face.

The corners of Riven's mouth tug upwards. She stays humble though. "I had good teachers," she says. In the bright sun of the plains, Katarina can see ghostly lines of old scars on Riven's face. They're small scars and they've faded such that they're nearly invisible against her dark skin.

What would Riven look like if she smiled?

"Darius?" Katarina asks.

The ghost of a smile on Riven's face grows - it's not yet a full smile, but it's closer. "Darius," she says. "Kvellin. A few others. Our general before Darius."

Katarina arches an eyebrow. That was unexpected. "The one Darius killed? For weakness?"

The smile fades. "He was strong," Riven says, her tone suddenly hard. "But not brave."

The conversation has turned towards unstable ground now. Katarina corrects the course with a light hand. "Strength and bravery are different?"

Riven is quiet for a time, mulling over her next words. Finally, she answers. "Bravery is what you do. Strength is how you do it. He fled. _Strongly_."

"In Noxus, the strong rise," Katarina responds.

Riven snorts. "Why rise?" she asks. From the way she's turned to look off toward the horizon of hills, it's evident her question is rhetorical, at least in part.

Katarina shrugs. "To find your equal," she says. "To finally find the person who shares your mark."

Riven turns back to look at Katarina. She looks at Katarina as if Katarina has grown a second head or something equally outlandish has disfigured her. This was not the reaction Katarina expected. "You'd _bleed_ for _that_?" Riven asks.

Katarina blinks. The weak are many. The strong are few. The strongest rise and they find their equals. When you find your equal, you become _complete_. You become _more_. She doesn't think Riven will accept that answer, so she turns the question around. "You wouldn't?"

"No," Riven says without hesitation.

There's condescension in Riven's tone and it makes Katarina bristle. She tries to push her annoyance down though. Riven is a common soldier. What would a common soldier know of marks and equals? Even if Riven herself is strong enough to one day succeed, she lives surrounded by those too weak to even dream of seeking their matching mark. They'll live out their days incomplete, settling for pale imitations of what's due to the strong.

"Why do you spend so much time training?" Katarina asks. There's more of a bite in her voice than she meant for there to be.

"To stay alive," Riven responds. She says it as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

The condescension chafes.

"And what if your equal is searching for you?" Katarina asks.

Riven shrugs. "I'm not searching," she says. "So they're not either." She hesitates, a pause, then, "You're searching. Why?"

One hand on her reins, Katarina drums the fingers of her other hand against the hilt of one of her blades.

She's searching because she wants what her parents had. Before her mother died.

She's not going to tell this stranger that though.

"To be stronger," Katarina says.

That answer is one that Riven accepts without challenge.

It would fit with the border commander's worldview, Katarina supposes. It's what Riven expects to hear. So she believes it when Katarina says it.

Riven hums, but says nothing more. She's run out of things to say and so has Katarina.

The silence they fall into is not uncomfortable though. And so, though the conversation is over, Katarina does not fall back in with the rest of their column. She stays riding even with Riven at the front.

They break once to rest the horses and take lunch, but otherwise they ride from dawn until dusk.

When the sun touches the horizon, Riven halts the party and orders the group to pitch a camp. She quickly and efficiently divvies up the night watches. No one is sent out for wood - there's precious little of it on the plain and they don't want to light a fire and give away their position anyway. One unlucky soul is sent off to dig a latrine.

Tired after a long day of riding, Katarina and the other men take their horses down to the river for water and then come back to picket and feed them. When the horses have been seen to, the men lay out their bedrolls alongside one another. It's still cold enough at night so close to the hills that, without the shelter of tents, they'll sleep together in a line, leaving only two people exposed to the nighttime winds.

Through what Katarina suspects is a conspiracy among the men, she ends up at one end of the line.

It's not terribly surprising. As the outsider, the soldiers have left her on the outside.

She presses her lips together in a tight line and doesn't complain. There's not much she can do about the situation without seeming both too weak to defend herself from what amounts to hazing and too weak to deal with the cold.

Katarina is burrowing deeper into her bedding and bracing herself for a long night when another bedroll hits the ground on her exposed side.

Riven crawls into the bedroll without a word and then immediately falls asleep.

It's truly impressive how fast she goes from awake to very quiet snoring.

Katarina will gladly trade being kept up by the cold wind for Riven's snoring.

When morning comes, they decamp quickly and efficiently. The soldiers have done this countless times and Katarina can hold her own when it comes to rolling up her bedding. Unlike the soldiers, she doesn't have to take the time to don armor again. She slept in her leathers and her jerkin is all the armor she wears.

Riven sees her idling and thrusts a shovel at her.

The order is clear.

As much as Katarina doesn't want to bury the latrine, as the only person in the camp not working, she can hardly argue about it.

It's only been one night, but the latrine smells foul.

By the time she finishes, the rest of the men are done packing and have moved on to saddling their horses. Katarina joins them. She feeds her mare a handful of oats before securing her tack.

Before long, they're back to riding. To their right, a mile off, is the river. To their left is an endless grassy plain. Yellow and green are broken up by the occasional clump of brightly colored spring wildflowers. Ahead - they've almost come to the foot of the first hill. Farther up in the hills, for what feels like the first time since reaching the border lands, Katarina sees trees. Real, proper trees, not the gnarled things scraping out an existence along the banks of an unpredictable river. The plains are too arid for trees, but the hills, it would seem, get slightly more rain and provide some shelter for larger plants to grow.

There's appreciably less conversation today compared to yesterday. As the morning wears on, tension mounts. No one says it, but everyone knows that this is the area where they should find their missing scouts.

When the sun is a little way past its zenith and they've reached the hills, Riven orders the party to fan out to form a long line. They can't go out of sight or hearing distance of one another, but they need to sweep more ground.

Riven stays at the center of the line.

Katarina decides to go to the edge of the wing farthest from the river.

It's the third hill.

The hill isn't particularly steep - it is nothing compared to the mountain upon which the great citadel of High Command sits - but it's also not an insignificant thing. Katarina's glad she was born a woman and not a horse. She'd hate to be one of the beasts dragging any of the heavily armored men of Fury Company up the slope.

As she approaches the crest of the hill, she smells the bodies before she sees them.

It's an overpowering stench of excrement and rot. It's unmistakably _death_.

Katarina raises a hand and shouts down the line. Her message is repeated over and over til it reaches the far end. Soon, the rest of the party is riding towards her.

What she's come across is a slaughter.

By her count, there are fifteen dead Noxians at the top of the hill, all in leather armor and bearing the blue sigil of the Blaze Company. The bodies have been decomposing for several days and Katarina's mare shies away when Katarina tries to get close. Flies swarm.

There aren't any dead horses though - the Demacians must have captured them.

Judging from the bodies' proximity to messy bedrolls, Katarina thinks they were taken by surprise while camped, possibly at night. They didn't go down without a fight though. There are two fresh graves nearby.

The _goldbellies_ buried their own dead but left the Noxians for the animals and the elements.

Typical.

And two dead Demacians to fifteen dead Noxians? The Noxians were surely outnumbered, badly.

When Riven arrives, her face is grim. She barks out orders and then dismounts. Two other men of Fury Company join her in digging a trench for their comrades and all the rest assist in dragging the remains into it.

It's grisly work. More than once a body that's gone too soft in the sun comes apart when the Noxians try to move it. Foul smelling fluids drip from detached limbs.

Katarina watches but does not offer to help. As she watches, she moves slightly upwind. Between the stench and the wrongness of watching a bloated body fall apart – suffice to say she doesn't want to be seen retching.

As Riven and Fury Company dig and bury, the cavalry who've been traveling with them split off and press forward at a canter. Their orders are to find the Demacians, but only if the Demacians are nearby. If they ride out farther than half an hour and haven't seen anything, they're to turn back and regroup. It helps the Second Army not at all if another scouting force vanishes.

It's a crisp and clear day. Good weather is common on the plains but almost unheard of in the city. Noxus is a world of industrial smog - great factories burn night and day to fuel the war machine of empire. Katarina may miss hot baths, soap, silk sheets, and her feather bed, but, upwind of the burials, the sun and fresh air of the border offset the downsides of her assignment.

When Fury Company finishes with the bodies, they move away from the remnants of the carnage. Katarina goes to join them, everyone standing with their horse, ready to mount up and ride as soon as the scouts return.

There's a thick tension in the air that suppresses any idle chatter. They wait in silence.

Katarina keeps one hand on the reins of her mare to keep the horse from wandering too far. Her other hand finds its way to settle on the hilt of one of her knives. The solidity of the weapon is reassuring. She's the second best blade in Noxus. The soldiers around her may be on edge, but she is calm, collected, ready for whatever it is that may come.

"Commander!" The shout comes from the junior officer, Riven's lieutenant. He's pointing a gauntlet-clad hand out towards the crest of the next hill over.

The group of riders is returning. Or, more precisely, two men are returning. They're riding hard, at a full headlong gallop. Behind them chase a whole squad of riders, sixteen of them, in steel and blue.

Riven reacts instantly. She already has a foot in one stirrup as she shouts, "Mount!" As soon as she's in the saddle, she issues a second order. "Charge!"

Katarina has only a moment to set her course. Her mare, who carried her so well all the way from Noxus, isn't trained for combat. She can't ride the horse into a skirmish – the horse will bolt, at best.

So Katarina improvises.

She urges her mare forward, but even as she's doing this she slips her feet out of her stirrups and pulls them up so that she's crouched up on her saddle. Katarina used to practice trick riding at her family's country estate when her trainers were busy looking for the ever truant Cassiopeia. It's harder, certainly, riding at a full gallop and steering the mare towards Riven and Riven's great war horse, but Katarina manages.

When she's close enough, she tenses, she jumps.

It's a testament to Riven's horse's training that the stallion doesn't immediately try to buck his rider and his rider's new companion off as soon as Katarina lands. And it's a testament to Riven's nerves that she keeps focused on the enemy.

Feet planted on the back of Riven's saddle, Katarina squats down to lower her center of gravity. Her knees press up against Riven's back and she grabs ahold of Riven's shoulder as well, just for good measure.

Among other things, it would be embarrassing to fall off now that she's landed her jump.

They're almost to the Demacians now – and it takes only heartbeats for the two forces to collide.

The Demacians have an advantage in being armed with spears against Fury Company's swords, but the men of Fury Company are in plate armor and the Demacians are too principled to strike at unarmored horses. _Their loss_. The charge quickly devolves into a mounted brawl. In close quarters, the Noxians have the advantage, wheeling around their enemies and striking both man and horse.

Riven raises her enormous sword. The first man she takes down, she uses the end of the sword as a thrusting weapon, ramming the end of it into the chest of a rider. Caught in his stirrups, he doesn't go flying off his horse. Instead, the sword punctures his breastplate and keeps going. It's more of a production for Riven to get her weapon free of the dead man than it is killing him.

For Katarina though, clinging to Riven is neither effective nor safe. As long as she is on Riven's horse with her, Riven's speed and mobility are both limited and Katarina is an easy target for a Demacian blade.

Katarina takes a deep breath, finding her center. She's in a hurry. She's rushed. But she has to execute this perfectly.

She lets go of Riven and stands up slightly.

She finds a target – a nearby Demacian lancer aiming for one of the surviving scouts.

Again, Katarina jumps.

Again, she lands perfectly.

When she lands, the Demacian's horse rears. The soldier a good rider though and keeps his seat, meaning Katarina, clinging to him as she slits his throat, stays on the horse as well. As the horse comes to ground again and the soldier drops his reins and his spear to claw at his mauled neck, Katarina knocks his feet from his stirrups and unhorses him.

Soldier dealt with, it's a simple matter to take his spot in the bloody saddle and wheel his horse about so that she can look for her next target.

There isn't a next target.

Katarina has finished with her one man just in time to watch Riven cut the last surviving Demacian nearly in half.

Katarina is too far away - so it's all in her head - but she feels as though she can see in the _blueback_ 's eyes the moment he realizes that his raised shield will do nothing to stop the enormous Noxian greatsword swinging for his torso. It's a progression from confidence to surprise to horror to despair. And then nothing.

The dead man's body stays in the saddle, foot caught in the stirrups. His horse, a warhorse, keeps fighting, rearing up to kick at Riven. It's a glorious brown stallion, probably the product of several generations of careful breeding.

She decapitates the horse. It takes her only a single swing to make a clean cut all the way through.


	5. In Light: Chapter 5

A/N: Sorry for the schedule slip. I meant to post this last weekend but my life is a little out of control right now. In this chapter, the name "Trout" comes from the wonderful CrimsonNoble who was working on a Rivelia Witcher AU and named witcher Riven's horse Trout. I'm bad at names, so I borrowed it.

* * *

 **As the Night Falls**

 **Act One: In Light**

 **Chapter Five**

* * *

The horse's head hits the ground, eyes glassy and tongue lolling.

Riven follows it down. She dismounts and stabs her sword into the earth. "Stay mounted," she calls. "If your horse is hurt, take a blueback or double up."

Katarina doesn't stay mounted. She slips down from the Demacian charger and goes towards where her mare has fled to. At this point, the horse has _sentimental value_. It also has her bags.

The horse has strayed some distance from the battle, but not too far. A whistle brings the mare trotting back over to her.

The horse nips at her outstretched, bloody hand. Apparently not much liking the metallic taste of gore, the mare snorts and pulls back. Fair. Horses prefer grass, after all.

Briefly, very briefly, Katarina reconsiders her decision not to give the beast a name.

She stays the course. She has never named a horse before and she is loath to do something she might be bad at.

When Katarina returns, Riven is kneeling over a fallen man. He's of Fury Company. From the way he's writhing in pain, he's still alive. Of the three Noxians on the ground, he's the only one not definitively dead. He's probably dying though. Even plate armor can only do so much against a spear backed up with the weight and momentum of a warhorse. The weapon is still lodged deep in his gut, sticking out of him like a pin from a pincushion.

Katarina doubts even the best healers of High Command could stitch such a wound back together again. The necromancers would be able to raise him, of course – because he's as good as dead.

Nearby, Riven's lieutenant dismounts. He pulls off his helmet and hangs it from his saddle before walking over to his comrades. He bends down and gets his hands under the dying man's back, then heaves. The dying soldier's legs scramble weakly, more twitching than moving with any intent. Between the two of them, they manage to get the man standing.

Riven takes up the dying man's sword. Then, like she did to the horse, she decapitates him.

One clean blow.

Saying nothing, Riven and her lieutenant mount up again. The enemy know where they are and there's no time to bury their dead.

At Riven's signal, the entire group wheels about and begins to ride back towards their camp.

If there were any other survivors from the cavalry group, they'll know to follow back to the camp. If not - it's best to go.

The two scouts the Demacians were chasing report that the enemy has already crossed the river. They're camped and look to be building a forward base. The army needs to know. Now.

They ride hard, only occasionally breaking to take water from the river. When the sun sets, they don't stop. The moon is only half full, but without any clouds in the night sky it casts enough light to see reasonably well.

Riven orders everyone to dismount and march, leading their horses on foot. At the front, she sets a grueling pace. Katarina is filthy with sweat and her mare - Tibbers? is Tibbers a good name for a horse? - is shaking with exhaustion.

Katarina grinds her teeth in frustration - a habit she thought she'd kicked some time ago.

She's been with _Tibbers_ too long to let the mare suffer like this.

Katarina thrusts her reins at the soldier marching next to her to hold before forcing her weary legs into a jog. It doesn't take long to catch up with Riven, who's only a few horselengths ahead.

Her old fallback comes to mind: What would Cassiopeia do?

"Commander," Katarina says, as forcefully as she can without raising her voice.

Riven's head whips around. Her amber eyes bore into Katarina - and Katarina is reminded, suddenly, starkly, of the chilling fury in those eyes when Riven was trying to choke her into submission.

"Soldier?" Riven says.

Katarina is not one of Riven's soldiers, but she wants something specific so now is not the time to correct the misnomer. She lets a touch of anger leak into her voice. "Just because you and I can go all night doesn't mean the horses can," Katarina says. She furthers her point by jabbing a finger towards Riven's own grey stallion, who is in substantially the same state as Katarina's Tibbers.

Has Riven named her horse? Is the horse even hers? Or is it just one that she pulled from the stock of the Second Army for this particular excursion? Will Riven care?

Riven's response is a grunt. It's not as low and resonant as Darius' ridiculous growling, but it's close. Maybe the army teaches it. Maybe there's a class. All the while, she keeps marching and the entire party keeps following her.

Katarina snarls - slightly, just enough to show teeth. "It took us a day and a half on horseback on the way out," she says. "We're not going to walk back in one night."

This gets more of a reaction. Riven runs a hand through her dirty, white hair. Something between a grunt and a snort escapes her. Then, softly, "I take first watch. You take second. I'll wake you when it's your turn." Raising her voice, she calls out to the rest of the group, "Camp."

To Katarina, the next half hour or so is an exhausted blur. She and the others see to their horses and then practically hurl themselves into their bedrolls with no thought to the dried blood on their skin. Some of them don't bother taking off their armor. No one digs a latrine. Katarina is tired to such an extent that she doesn't realize she's fallen asleep until the night is over and there's sun on her face.

Riven never woke her.

Doing their best to act as if they're well rested when they're not, the group decamps and departs as quickly as they can manage. Thankfully for the men, unfortunately for their horses, they're mounted once more.

There's a sense that they are, for the time being, safe. But they still need to return to the main army as quickly as possible. There's little chatter. Exhaustion stifles it.

Mindful of the finer points of efficient communication, Katarina waits until mid-morning to approach Fury Company's commander.

Katarina does not appreciate being _babied_.

She rides up alongside Riven at the front of the column. She doesn't have to make herself scowl. She's already doing it naturally. "You let me sleep through the night," Katarina says.

Riven shrugs and doesn't look at Katarina. "There wasn't enough night left to change watches."

 _Bullshit_.

Katarina's scowl deepens. "There was enough night to split it in half."

Riven finally looks at Katarina. There are dark rings beneath her amber eyes. She's slumping slightly and it's a wonder she's upright in the saddle at all. Instead of angry, she looks uncomfortable. "I was returning a favor," she says. Then she nudges her horse to pull ahead of Katarina, breaking distance and ending the conversation.

This is not an acceptable end to the conversation. Last night, Riven addressed Katarina as she would one of her soldiers and Katarina allowed it for the sake of her own priorities. Now, Katarina refuses to be treated as one of Riven's subordinates. Their challenge ended in a draw. Riven is not superior to Katarina.

Katarina squeezes her knees slightly, causing Tibbers to accelerate to catch up to Riven once more. "What does that mean?" Katarina demands.

Judging from the way Riven tenses, she's grown even more uncomfortable. "We needed to stop last night," she says. "You were right."

Whatever answer Katarina was expecting, that isn't it. She, of course, knew she was right the night before. Otherwise she wouldn't have said anything. And she does love hearing that she was right. But she's unaccustomed to people admitting that she was right so freely. Cassiopeia would rather die than do anything that might even hint at such a thing and Talon prefers to sulk. And so, surprised, it takes Katarina a moment to find her tongue again.

The thrill of unforeseen victory temporarily dispels the oppressive tension of their double-time ride. Katarina finds herself grinning. If there's one thing she loves to do, it's gloat. "If being right is enough to relieve me of watch, I should tell you what to do more often."

This earns her a scowl from Riven, but there's nothing behind it.

Katarina's light grin morphs into a dark smirk. "Would you like that?"

It's rather telling that the first thing Riven does is look over her shoulder to check if any of her men are in earshot. They are. In fact, several of them seem to be substantially closer than they were when last Katarina took note of their positions, and they're leaning forward in their saddles as well. Riven's lieutenant in particular is not at all subtle about his eavesdropping. He catches Riven's eye and waves at her.

It's a shame they have an audience because it makes Riven's answer rather predictable.

That being the case, Katarina saves Riven the trouble of saying anything. "I suppose you only obey orders from Darius."

Riven turns back to Katarina. "Darius is my commander," she says woodenly. "Of course I obey him."

"Half the army thinks you sleep with him too," Katarina says.

Only after the words have left her mouth does she realize she has fallen away from asking _what would Cassiopeia do_ and landed back in _what stupid shit is Katarina going to say today_ territory.

Riven's answer is immediate and it's flat. "I don't."

Being so deep in _what stupid shit is Kataria going to say today_ territory, Katarina decides her only option is to press on. She mimic's Riven's flat tone but adds a touch of sarcasm. "Really?"

Riven takes the time to turn and glare at her men. Following her silent command, or maybe just reacting to her displeasure, they fall back somewhat.

"I don't," Riven repeats to Katarina. She says it more forcefully this time. As if she's… frustrated.

Katarina arches an eyebrow. "But you want to. So why don't you?"

Riven tugs on the reins of her grey stallion, guiding him so close to Katarina and Tibbers that Riven could reach out and shove Katarina off her horse if she wanted to. "That," Riven says, voice low, "is none of your business."

Katarina feels the weak heat of a seed of anger in her chest. Anger is the only appropriate response to aggression, indeed, the only possible response. "Darius is my business," she says, also speaking softly. "If you recall, I'm here to aid in his transition."

Riven's amber eyes narrow. "Do your business elsewhere." She brings her horse away from Katarina once more.

Katarina means to sigh but the air leaves her in more of an annoyed hiss. "If I could leave this backwater, I would," she says. "It wasn't my idea to babysit your army."

"Babysit?" The single word leaving Riven's mouth is laced with venom.

Katarina doesn't believe in backing down. Backing down isn't a concept that exists. "Do you have a better word for it?" she asks.

Riven doesn't answer.

Instead of pressing, Katarina waits.

And she waits. And she waits. And she waits.

Riven is still, to all appearances, still sulking and trying to come up with a response when they come within sight of the camp walls in the early afternoon.

The sentries hail them. They hail the sentries.

As if all the exhaustion of the past two days has finally caught up with her, Katarina can suddenly barely keep her eyes open as they approach the camp. She's weary behind comprehension. She wants to let herself just fall out of the saddle.

Is she so tired though that she'll skip going down to the river to wash away the grime of three days travel and yesterday's battle?

Katarina is weighing her options when Riven interrupts her thoughts. "You want to go back to Noxus?"

"In Noxus," Katarina says, "We have baths. With hot water. And _soap_."

At this, Riven snorts.

Together, they ride through the gates.

Of the seventeen who set out, eight remain.

Darius is waiting for them just beyond the gates. As they dismount, he stalks off back to his tent.

Katarina is about to lead Tibbers off to the corral with the other horses when a hand on her shoulder stops her. Reflexively, she reaches for a knife. If she weren't so damn tired and slow, she might even have managed to draw it before Riven lets go of her shoulder and takes a step back, holding up empty hands. Very pointedly, she looks down at Katarina's hand, wrapped around the hilt of her blade.

Katarina lets go of her weapon with a slow deliberateness. Now very aware of how her hand is just hanging by her side, she decides to cross her arms over her chest.

Riven gestures to her grey stallion. "I need to report to Darius," she says. "Can you take care of him?"

Katarina's first impulse is to refuse. Seeing to a second horse will delay her trip down to the freezing river - and all that will delay finally getting a full night's sleep. But.

Katarina uncrosses her arms and holds out a hand to take the reins from Riven. "You owe me another favor, commander," she says.

Riven nods in way of reply and then turns to follow Darius to his tent. A somewhat disappointing response, in Katarina's opinion. It was, however, a tacit acceptance of her proposition, so she'll consider it good enough.

Stiff from the past few days of riding and marching and fighting, Katarina leads Tibbers and Riven's horse off to the fenced in corral where the rest of the herd mills about. There are guards to watch the herd and feed from the camp's stores at mealtimes and horseminders will take them out of the camp regularly to run and graze, but otherwise the horses are left to their own pursuits - mostly sleeping. There aren't terribly many horses attached to the Second Army. The animals are expensive and difficult to look after. The Second is almost entirely infantry.

A large tent near the corral serves as storage for tack and other supplies. Katarina ties the two horses up to a post outside the tent near where the other returned soldiers are working and sets to her task.

From a young age, the horsemasters who trained Katarina drilled it into her that she should always take care of her horse before anyone else, including herself. Men forgive, they said. Horses don't. The only thing more delicate than a horse is a horse's opinion of you.

Working carefully, Katarina removes the horses' gear, cleans it, and puts it away in the nearby tent. When she comes back, she comes back with a pail full of brushes.

It's been nearly two weeks since she handed Tibbers off to the nearest soldier at the gate of the camp. In retrospect, as Tibbers attempts to rub her face against Katarina's, Katarina has just enough of a sense of shame to feel that she perhaps should not have tried to forget about her horse so thoroughly.

Tibbers is a good horse. Tibbers is fond of Katarina. Katarina is, grudgingly, fond of Tibbers.

Riven's horse is another story entirely.

The grey stallion tries to bite Katarina more than once and seems more keen on Tibbers than having his coat cleaned. As a result, grooming him is slow going. Katarina is still trying to untangle a particularly nasty snarl in his mane when Riven arrives.

Wordlessly, Riven takes up a soft brush and starts on the stallion's face as Katarina continues to pick at its mane. For Riven, the stubborn beast stands still.

"That horse is a monster," Katarina remarks.

Riven lets out a short hum. "Trout's a good boy," she replies. From the pitch of her voice, it's not clear if she's talking to Katarina or to Trout.

Katarina snorts her disbelief. If Riven thinks Trout's a good boy, Katarina has a nice estate in the Blue Flame Islands she'd love to sell her. "Have you seen my horse Tibbers?" Katarina asks. "Tibbers is a good horse. Trout is ornery."

Riven pauses her brushing to stare at Katarina. "Tibbers?"

Defensive, Katarina bristles. "You named your horse Trout."

Maybe Tibbers wasn't the best name for a horse. Ripper, perhaps? Killer? Mangler? Horse?

"The old general named him Trout," Riven corrects. "He's an army horse. He's not mine."

Katarina finally manages to work the tangle out of Trout's mane. Victory at last. "He likes you," she remarks.

This draws more humming from Riven. She, clearly, likes Trout in return.

Katarina isn't jealous because being jealous of a horse would be ridiculous and she is not ridiculous. Or jealous.

When it's been long enough that Katarina thinks the conversation is over, Riven finally responds, "You like me too."

Katarina turns a startled choke into a cough, clearing her throat. What the hell is wrong with her? She's _Katarina Du Couteau_. She hasn't been this tongue-tied since she was sixteen. If she were her sister, if she were Cassiopeia, she'd have some artful reply. Instead - "I'm not a horse," she says.

Riven pauses her brushing to look at Katarina. Her mouth is pulled up in a half-grin. There's a devil-glint in her eyes that makes Katarina's heartbeat quicken. "I can see that," Riven says.

"Good," Katarina manages.

 _Good_ doesn't give Riven much to work with. Riven chuckles and returns to brushing down Trout. The exchange peters out into silence.

When they finish grooming Trout together, Riven takes Trout and Ripper over to the corral to rejoin the herd and Katarina takes the grooming tools back to the storage tent. Riven is waiting for her by the entrance of the tent when she finishes putting the tools away.

She's holding something in her gloved right hand. As Katarina approaches, Riven holds it out. It's a fist-sized lump of something wrapped in waxed brown paper. Though Riven doesn't say anything, she clearly intends for Katarina to take the… whatever it is.

Katarina regards the brown wrapped lump for a moment before reaching out gingerly and picking it out of Riven's hand. It's light, suggesting it might also be fragile. Carefully, Katarina unwraps the paper.

 _Soap_.

Riven's given her _soap_.

Katarina is flabbergasted, speechless. There's a rough edge; it's clearly been broken off from a larger piece - where did Riven even get this from? The quartermaster of the army doesn't have soap. It's not part of the normal supply lines.

 _Soap_!

When Katarina recovers from her shock enough to stop gaping, she looks back up to Riven. "Why do you have soap?" she asks.

In her mind, Cassiopeia hisses, _'Say thank you_.' Mind-Cassiopeia can shut up. Why does Riven have soap?

Riven shrugs. She gestures to indicate her hair. Normally white, it's begun to go brown with grime. She doesn't say anything, but Katarina has her answer.

Cassiopeia's voice becomes more insistent. ' _Thank you_ ,' it insists.

Katarina clears her throat.

Too late.

Riven has turned her back and is walking away.


	6. In Light: Chapter 6, Part 1

A/N: Okay, back on schedule for this week. Might schedule slip again next weekend because I'll be moving back to school. Which is sort of especially awkward for this particular post since I decided I needed to split this chapter into two sections to avoid a monster 7k chapter. And the result was a somewhat weird chapter break point.

But anyway. Thank you everyone who is reading and thank you doubly to those of you who dropped a review last week!

* * *

 **As the Night Falls**

 **Act One: In Light**

 **Chapter Six, Part One  
**

* * *

When Katarina wakes the next morning she's not well rested but she's rested. More importantly, she's clean. Actually clean. Cleanliness, as they say, is next to godliness and Katarina is as close to the heavens as she can get without actually being back in her featherbed in Noxus. Even better, she still has most of Riven's soap left, enough for at least a week if she uses it carefully.

All around, she hears the sounds of the entire camp getting ready to move. As she's independent of any company and thus any company duties, it doesn't take her long at all to pack her few belongings and her tent. The tent is standard issue and goes into an ox-drawn wagon filled with other such tents. She'll get another whenever they entrench once more. Her belongings go back into her saddlebags and her saddlebags go on Ripper.

Ripper gives Katarina an affectionate nuzzle.

It occurs to her that this mare is really not a Ripper sort of mare.

Perhaps Daisy then? Katarina regards Daisy. Daisy regards Katarina.

She'll try Daisy for a while, then. And if Daisy doesn't work out, she'll think of something else. It will be a good way to pass time on as the army marches.

Around mid-morning, the Second Army sets out. Their destination is the hills and the Demacians.

They move as an enormous train, plodding across the plains at a horrifically slow pace. Before them is grass, behind them is a turned-up mess of loose dirt, all vegetation cut and trampled by soldiers' boots.

Instead of riding, Katarina walks. Daisy has worked very hard for the past few days and Katarina would rather stretch her legs than get riding cramps for no reason.

That said, Daisy still gets to carry Katarina's bags. It's a hard life, being a horse.

Bereft of a squad, Katarina is left to herself. Other men chatter with one another to pass the time as they march, but no one approaches Katarina until a little after the army's midday rest.

Riven's lieutenant, the one with the long hair and the bushy beard, slips through the ranks of soldiers to walk alongside Katarina. It occurs to her that, despite riding with him for several days, she's never bothered to learn his name. He's carrying a wineskin and smells slightly of alcohol. Drinking on the march is a popular way to pass the time.

"Hey, miss," the lieutenant says. He pauses. "Miss… uh…"

"Du Couteau," Katarina corrects. She tries not to sound too hostile about it. She's bored out of her mind. She spent the entire morning coming up with horse names, each worse than the last and none of them better than Daisy. "And you are?"

"Victor," says Victor. He has an easy smile, though he's missing a few teeth. "First Lieutenant of Fury Company, ma'am." He glances around, looking for eavesdroppers. There aren't any. Katarina is habitually aware of those around her. The marching of the column is incredibly loud and the only people within earshot are a bunch of soldiers competing over who can burp the loudest.

"Look Miss Du Couteau," Victor says. He scratches his beard nervously. His next words come in a rush. "Commander Riven, right? She's real tight strung. And some of us boys were thinking you might could help with that."

Well that would explain yesterday's shameless listening in.

Katarina bites back her first response - something along the lines of asking if _Victor and the boys_ want to watch - and asks herself, what would Cassiopeia do? She can't spend her entire afternoon as listing increasingly miserable horse names. She just can't. _Flubber_ is the worst she's come up with so far and she's starting to think she has a talent for being awful at this.

"And you're doing that thinking out of the goodness of your hearts? How charitable," Katarina drawls. "You really look out for your commander."

Victor laughs. "We've got a pool. You want in? Odds say next week. I'm all in on this week though."

"I believe that would be cheating," Katarina replies.

"I'm running the book. Nobody needs to know," Victor says. He says it lightly. Katarina's not sure if he's serious or not.

"The general used to command Fury Company, correct?" Katarina asks. "Did you make bets about him too?"

Victor, it seems, is prone to laughter. His guffaw is pleasant though—not at all condescending. "He still commands us boys. That's what being general's about." He pauses, then, "Betting on Darius is fair useless though."

Curiosity piqued, Katarina ventures, "Why?"

Victor takes another swig from his wineskin. A few drops of the dark purple drink get caught in his beard. He wipes them away with the back of his hand. "Darius hasn't got a mark," Victor says, as if that explains everything. When it's clear that it doesn't, he tries again. "Never did. Just born without. He's not interested in people. Used to drive Riven crazy. But we figure she got over it a while ago." He shrugs.

Katarina blinks.

Intellectually, she has always known that some people are born without marks, but never before has she met one. They are rare, far rarer than finding your equal. Anyone who searches long enough and hard enough, who devotes themselves to the task, can find their equal. That is the nature of the world.

But men without marks – they are half of a whole that isn't. They're aberrations.

They can seek to the ends of the world and never find their equal.

Some say that they are peerless. That they are marked, not by birth but by destiny, and they in turn make their mark on the world. That being born without an equal is a sign of greatness.

That may be true. In any case, such men are not known for leading particularly long lives.

This was not in High Command's briefing. High Command will wish to know.

Stalling for a chance to collect her thoughts, Katarina repeats, "Not interested in people?"

Victor leans close to Katarina, secretive. His breath smells strongly of alcohol and Katarina has to fight the urge to lean away. "Doesn't even get himself off," Victor says.

Katarina splutters. Darius is unmarked. And this is what his men take that to mean?

Victor leans away, back out of Katarina's personal space. "I spy with my big old eye," he starts, "Something brown."

"Everything here is brown," Katarina remarks dryly.

Victor offers her his wineskin.

That evening, the army doesn't pitch a full camp. They set the mess area and little else. It will have to be taken up again in the morning. Even Darius beds down like a common soldier underneath the open sky.

Katarina has no chance to pen a report to High Command. It will have to wait until the march is over.

She sleeps in a line sandwiched between Victor and another man of Fury Company, one she hasn't met before. He's one of the few men in camp she judges may actually be larger than Darius. He introduces himself as Cheran and then near immediately begins snoring loudly.

It's not the best sleep Katarina has ever had, but at least it's warm.

The next day, Cheran joins Katarina, Victor, and Daisy on the march. Cheran isn't the loquacious sort so, again, Katarina spends most of her time playing ridiculous children's travel games with Victor. There's not a cloud in the sky and the sun beats down relentlessly. Katarina's leather and steel jerkin is uncomfortably warm and bulky for marching. She adds it to Daisy's load. Winter has truly passed.

Riven doesn't show up until the third day. When she does, Victor and Cheran both find excuses to make themselves scarce. Victor claims he has to check on a supply wagon. Cheran says something about something - he mumbles so badly Katarina isn't sure what it is other than some form of goodbye.

Katarina wonders if Cheran too has his bet on this week.

Riven's wearing her black officer's uniform, covered in dust from the road, jacket unbuttoned to reveal an off-white undershirt beneath. On her back is a heavy rucksack with all her belongings at camp. She's marching with her greatsword, pommel cupped in her gloved right hand at her side and the blade, wrapped in cloth, propped up against her shoulder. The sword is too large to be feasibly transported any other way. Elsewhere, her plate armor has been packed up to be dragged along in a Fury Company wagon by an ox.

Her undershirt is drenched in sweat and clings to her muscular body.

If something happened to the ox, Riven could pull the wagon.

Katarina doesn't bother to hide her greedy staring.

She thinks she knows Riven well enough - Riven, who walked up sweaty and with her jacket open and with no sense of subtlety whatsoever - to judge she'll take it for a compliment.

They walk side by side in a sort of expectant and awkward silence for about half a mile before Riven clears her throat. "So where did you learn to fight?" she asks.

After waiting in silence for so long, Katarina doesn't feel rushed to answer. She has time and time enough to think about her reply. As Riven's question mirrors the question she put to Riven some days ago, she mimic's Riven's answer in return. "In Noxus," she says.

Fair is fair, after all. Cassiopeia would be so proud.

Riven rewards her with a snort - not a laugh but certainly suggestive of one. Riven doesn't follow up after that though. Unlike Katarina, she doesn't press for a more expansive answer.

There's a flicker of fear in Katarina that if she doesn't say something the conversation will be stillborn. And Cassiopeia would not, then, be proud. So she volunteers. "My father hired the best trainers in the city," she says, a touch of pride coloring her tone. "Sometimes he would train me as well."

Katarina measures the time between when she finishes and when Riven responds in footsteps. Twelve paces.

"Your father sounds wealthy," Riven says.

Katarina's back straightens reflexively. "My father, Marcus Du Couteau, is the Hand of Noxus."

There's nothing of awe in Riven's reply. This is disappointing. "Oh," Riven says. She says it slow and awkward, like she's grasping for something more. She ends up at, "Darius said your name was familiar."

"My family has served Noxus for six generations," Katarina says. Technically the Du Couteaus have been in Noxus for longer than that, but it was only six generations ago that they became involved with High Command.

Riven frowns. "How long is that?"

Now Katarina has to pause and think. The main hall of the Du Couteau house in Noxus is lined with portraits of dead Du Couteaus. What's the earliest date on them? She's never paid much attention to their names or their faces or really anything about them at all. Her training has left her with a very keen memory though. "Over two hundred years," she finally says.

This, finally, gets the reaction Katarina expects, though, like much of Riven's communication, it's muted. "That's a long time."

"Yes," Katarina says. "It is." She doesn't generally think of herself as an agreeable person, but agreement is a good way to fill space in a conversation while looking for something else to say. "What about your family?" Katarina asks.

When Riven shrugs, she only shrugs with her left shoulder since she's leaning her sword up against her right. "Don't remember them," she says.

To this, Katarina has the sense to bite her tongue.

She's heard those words in that tone before.

Talon hates being pressed about the family he doesn't have.

Katarina pivots the conversation. "How long have you been in the army?"

Riven clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Around twenty years, I think."

Katarina is far too well-bred to go slack jawed. But still. Riven has been serving in the Noxian army longer than Katarina has been alive. "Compulsory service is only five years," Katarina remarks. All Noxians enlist at eighteen, if they haven't already. Most serve their five years and then leave. A fair number stay as career soldiers. If Riven has served for twenty years… She doesn't look old enough - up close, Katarina thinks she's maybe just beyond thirty. So she must have joined younger - a lot younger.

"I like it here," Riven replies.

Katarina hears what's not said. She has ears. She doesn't remark on it though.

Cassiopeia likes to say that Katarina has no tact. Cassiopeia is wrong.

"If you ever stop liking it here, my father could use someone like you," Katarina says. It's true - Marcus Du Couteau is always looking for more agents. Riven is strong. It would be easy to slip her into High Command.

Riven snorts. "Don't think that will happen," she says. "But I'll remember."

"Noxus has its perks," Katarina replies. Is she trying to convince this borderlander to go to the city? Maybe. She ticks off the first three things that come to mind. "Hot baths. Soap. Featherbeds."

Riven hums, then, "A featherbed with you in it?"

Katarina manages to bite back her first response, which would be surprised spluttering. _I'm not a horse_ , the Cassiopeia in her head snickers. The march is going nowhere fast and she has time to think of something wittier. At last, she settles on, "A featherbed with me in it for me? Yes. For you? Maybe. If you're good." She struggles to keep her tone even. She thinks she succeeds.

Riven's half-grin is infectious. Katarina finds the corners of her own mouth pulling up.

"I'll keep that in mind," Riven says.

It occurs to Katarina then: is _Riven_ in on the betting too?

It takes them several more days to reach the hills going at the slow pace of the oxen who pull the wagons loaded with tents and supplies. Katarina wonders if the Demacians will even still be there. On the other hand, the enemy army surely doesn't move that much faster than the Noxians do. This is how armies work in the field, she thinks.

Sometimes Riven walks with her, sometimes Victor, sometimes Cheran, some rare times all three. Victor has a skill for the sort of conversation that goes nowhere in particular. The company, even intermittent, makes it an easier journey than the long road from Noxus to the border.

Sometimes, though, Katarina walks by herself, accompanied only by her thoughts.

After the first day, she'd given up on horse names. Now her mind turns to other matters. Noxus. Demacia. War. Death. Darius. Riven. _Marks_.

Darius has no mark.

Riven's mark is a winding vine circling her wrist, trellised between her fingers, twining along her forearm.

Katarina's mark sits graceful on her hip, tapering lines, the movement of blades.

All her life, Katarina has been proud of her mark. It is hers and it is her. Someday she will follow in her father's footsteps and she will track down her equal. And that equal will be just as much hers and her.

That Riven thinks nothing of marks. That Fury Company laugh at their general for his… not getting himself off as often as they do. That they connect this to his lack of a mark.

Whatever being unmarked means, it's not that.

In the corridors of her mind, Katarina paces.

When she's finally recalled from the front, she thinks, when she's summoned back home – that's when she'll begin. She'll seek and she'll find and she'll lay all doubts to rest.

Who will her equal be? A woman? A man? A warrior, certainly. Someone as strong as she.

Maybe it could even be someone like Riven.

The army passes the site of the skirmish from earlier in the week around noon on the fifth day. A few men, including Riven, linger to bury the Noxian dead before catching up with the rest of the column. They pitch full camp a few miles later. There are trees here, though not many and mostly near the river. The land is rocky and the hillsides are steep.

An aging member of Katarina's cohort of tutors used to say that the mountains in this part of the world were young. What 'young' means for a mountain - he never elaborated on that and Katarina never bothered to ask.

One of the many downsides to being outside the command structure of the army is that Katarina has no consistent source of information. What she knows about what they're doing and where they're going she learns fourth hand from soldiers who heard it from junior officers who heard it from commanders who heard it from Darius, maybe.

The situation must be rectified.

Katarina pitches her tent as quickly as she can and then makes a beeline for Darius' tent near the center of camp. She's known well enough around the army at this point that the guards admit her. Better to let her in freely than to fail trying to stop her.

Inside the tent, Darius, Riven, and a handful of the other senior officers of the army are huddled around Darius' table with its maps. Candles flicker on the table as well. Light filters through the tent walls, but not enough to read well by. At Katarina's entrance, they all go silent and look up from the table and towards her. They are a stony-faced bunch of men, stocky and scarred. A few of them exchange questioning glances between one another. Should this outsider be permitted to join their council?

Sensing that the majority of them have instinctively answered _no_ to that question, Katarina approaches slowly, giving them a chance to think themselves to a better response. She's capable of trouncing nearly all of them in a fight – though not all at once - and so could take her place among them if she wanted, but it's not, at the moment, the most efficient method to achieve her goal. So Katarina takes her time walking from the tent entrance to the table.

Her patience is rewarded.

Riven elbows an officer standing next to her to make room and steps a little to the side herself.

Katarina catches Riven's gaze and holds it for just long enough to say that she has taken note of the gesture. Then she slips into the gap and takes her place at the table. It seems that challenging Riven and subsequently being choked out by her will never cease to pay dividends.

" _General_." The speaker is a bear of a man. He's not as large as Darius, but he's the closest out of the assembled officers. He's old too, maybe as old or older than Darius. His dark hair is streaked with grey and his belly protrudes slightly beneath his black uniform. The color of his company is white - the most numerous of the commands that comprise the Second Army. If Katarina recalls correctly, they call themselves Dead Hand Company. That would make this commander the infamous Kvellin, the commander most likely to challenge Darius. "She's a child. She doesn't belong here." He glares at Riven now. "And the Fury Company commander has no right to invite her in."

Whatever respect Katarina has earned among the rank and file of the Second Army, it does not extend to the egos in command.

Darius grunts, non-committal. His arms are crossed over his chest as he frowns at Katarina. He looks little changed since she first saw him when she arrived at the camp of the Second Army. She knows now that he lacks a mark, but that knowledge has not changed her impression of him. He's a giant of a strongman with a dour face and no interest in politics.

Should she speak in her own defense? She thinks perhaps not - unless she can say something truly moving. Otherwise she'll only be inviting more dissent. She doesn't like being called a child, but this Dead Hand officer is twice her age. The only way she'd ever win that argument is through steel, and now is not the time.

There's a layer of agitation in the air as the entire council waits for Darius' decision.

Darius moves his jaw from side to side before he speaks, like it's some long abandoned hextech contraption and he needs to grind away rust before he uses it. "Commanders, Miss Du Couteau. Miss Du Couteau, Commanders. Miss Du Couteau is here from High Command. To observe."

Being called _miss_ by a drunk Victor is amusing. Flattering, almost. Being called the same by Darius in front of his command reeks of condescension. Katarina forces her face into a tight-lipped smile anyway. "Charmed," she says.

The enormous Dead Hand commander catches Katarina's eye and glowers.

"Einen," Darius rumbles. "You were saying?"

The officer next to Riven leans over the table slightly. He's a tall, wiry man and his uniform is marked with blue. He's the commander of the cavalry group, Blaze Company, who rode with Riven on her scouting expedition the previous week. "They're on our side of the river," Einen says. His voice sounds atypically youthful for a senior officer. He might even be near to Katarina's age. A very young cavalry commander - Katarina ought to keep an eye on him. He likely has connections in the city. "They're bringing building supplies from somewhere behind their lines," he continues, "They're digging foundations for a permanent fort – on our side – to guard the bridge."

"Let them," says Kvellin. "What good will a fort on our side of the river do them? Forts don't move. They'll have to abandon it at the end of the season and then it'll be ours."

"No," Darius rumbles.

The Dead Hand commander bristles. "No?" he repeats, incredulous. From the way he takes speaking against the general for granted, he has as much self-confidence as Katarina, if not more.

"No," Darius says again. "We take the fort. Then we cross the river."


	7. In Light: Chapter 6, Part 2

A/N: Some stuff came up and my travel plans changed. So here's Part 2 of Chapter 6, right on schedule. I think there will be two more chapters after this one to finish up Act I and then I'll be going on a hiatus to work on some other projects and plan out Act II.

Thank you, as always, to everyone reading and double thanks to those also reviewing. Y'all are great.

* * *

 **As the Night Falls**

 **Act One: In Light**

 **Chapter Six, Part Two  
**

* * *

Both of Katarina's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Darius is not like his predecessor.

His words have an instant effect on the assembled officers. They shift about uncomfortably. In all the years the Second Army has sat at along the border, they've never crossed the Adige River. The senior officers assembled here have served in the Second Army for longer than they've served Darius. Except, perhaps, Riven. She stands calm and unbothered by Darius' announcement.

She knew it was coming.

Katarina is distinctly aware that had Riven fidgeted with the rest of officers, she might have brushed into Katarina. As distracting as it would have been, Katarina wishes that she had.

"How long until the fort is done?" Riven asks calmly.

"Not too long," Einen says. "It's a whole army working – they'll work fast. Maybe a week." He pauses after answering Riven's question. He turns to Darius. "We should strike soon, before they finish." He says it forcefully, enthusiastically.

Katarina revises her opinion of him. Young, well connected, reasonably intelligent, _extremely ambitious_. She hasn't seen anyone brown-nose with so much gusto and so little subtlety since Cassiopeia was eight.

Einen's suggestion sets off a flurry of arguments from nearly every officer at the table. Gradually, the assembled commanders warm to the idea of attacking and taking an emplacement on the other side of the river, though Katarina senses that unease lingers for some at the prospect of invading Demacia. The Dead Hand commander – the infamous Kvellin of whom heard so much about in her first days at camp - in particular never speaks except to propose why an idea won't work. It's a valuable function for a council, but it's not coming from good faith.

Every now and then, someone will glower in Katarina's direction but no one bothers trying to remove her from the meeting again. The officers have more pressing matters to argue about.

For her part, having set the discussion on Darius' course, Riven says little. The only indication that she's paying attention is the way her eyes flicker between whoever's speaking at the moment and the faces of the other men present, gauging reactions.

The basic shape of the plan forms quickly enough. There's something incredibly Noxian about it. The walls aren't set yet and will be of minimal help to the defenders. The Noxians intend to walk to the Demacian line, charge, kill everyone. There's a beautiful simplicity in trusting in strength alone. What's more, they don't have any siege equipment with them and they have no way to get any. The local trees aren't big enough or plentiful enough to build with. The assault will have to happen soon – not tomorrow because the men need to rest after the march, but the day after.

This brilliant plan is apparently satisfactory to Darius and a few of his officers, Riven included. Everything else is details and bickering among the men who are worried that _charge_ isn't enough of a strategy.

By the time the meeting adjourns to reconvene the next morning, the sun is dipping towards the horizon outside. There's no agreement on where to position the cavalry for the battle if it rains and the commander of Dragon's Breath company is paranoid about ambushes. Katarina hasn't spoken once but she feels as if her ears are near to falling off from all the arguing. Aside from the conviction that the Second Army will win the battle and cross the river, Darius has offered little in the way of a firm hand guiding the course of the planning.

He's still used to being just another commander, Katarina thinks. He doesn't know how to be a general - yet. She would worry that this failure of leadership could have consequences for the rest of the army, but whatever the old general had been doing, it hadn't worked. Darius is better than the alternative.

What will come will come. For the time being, Katarina is covered in the dust of travel and it's time to wash up and sleep. She stops by her tent to retrieve what's left of Riven's soap before making her way down to the river.

Late evening is a popular time for the men of the camp who care about washing to wash up and the riverbank is relatively crowded. The current is stronger here in the hills and everyone has to stay close to the shore for fear of the undertow. What's more, while the rest of the world has been warming, the water is still icy. Katarina drops her bag of clean clothes on a low, broad, branch of a tree. It's nice to be able to not have to put her clean things on the ground. She strips down and her garments go in a pile next to her clean clothes.

She's steeling herself against the frigid river water when she hears, of all things, a _whistle_.

Katarina's eyes narrow as she snaps her head around to stare down the soldier with _absolutely no sense of self-preservation_.

He's a heavyset balding man missing a chunk of his left ear standing waist-deep in the river. When he sees her looking at him, he has the gall to leer.

There is a line between admiration and condescension. One is acceptable and the other is not.

Katarina's smile is feral and her razor intent guards her against the freezing water of the river as she wades in.

The soldier stands his ground as Katarina approaches. No - he doesn't just stand his ground, he actually takes a step forward. Fucking idiot.

Katarina stops just outside of reach - his or hers. Her advance has been slow. The riverbed is smooth pebbles. It's not ideal footing for walking, much less murder, and the resistance of the water itself further complicates any quick movements. She needs surprise and she needs power. The surprise won't be difficult because the man before her is a complete idiot. The power though - she'll just have to trust in herself. Thankfully, trusting in herself is easy. It comes naturally to her. She's _Katarina Du Couteau_.

Judging from the way the man is ignoring her face, Katarina knows she has his attention. She mimics her sister's drawl, "Do you like what you see?"

She tunes out whatever babbling answer the solder gives - can he not hear the sarcasm? - and while he's distracted she digs her feet down into the pebbles of the riverbed, bracing.

And then she steps, swings, pivots with it.

The knuckles of her fist catch the man high on his cheek and then slide into his nose as well.

He crashes down into the water with an enormous splash.

There's blood in the water. She probably broke his nose.

She was being merciful. She could have taken out his jaw.

Katarina has to take another step forward to close distance further and get a hand in what little hair he has to hold him under. She hit him harder than she'd anticipated. He wasn't supposed to travel so far in falling.

Keeping the man under ends up taking both hands. The first hand stays in his thin hair, what little of it there is, and the other hand presses down on the back of his neck. If she didn't need both feet planted firmly to keep her own balance, she'd probably add a knee to his spine for good measure.

He's stiff and flailing but between the shock of the icy river, the weight of the water and the current, the lack of footing, the drowning - he has little success in fighting his way out of Katarina's hold.

All around, other soldiers have come near to watch. But they haven't come so near that Katarina might get ahold of them. She's not paying attention to them though. All her focus is trained on the increasingly weak struggles of the man she's drowning.

His mark is visible on his back. It's angular and rough, an unsophisticated blob. _Just like him_. If Katarina keeps him under long enough, she'll be able to watch it fade.

Souls are not meant to stay locked in cold corpses.

Katarina doesn't keep him under long enough to kill him.

It's with slow reluctance that she pulls the soldier back up to the surface when his struggles amount to barely anything at all.

She's riding an adrenaline rush, but even so, she's not so unaware as to have forgotten why she ended up exiled to the border in the first place.

When he's finally back up in the air, the soldier clutches at his throat as he coughs up great gulps of water. Blindly, he stumbles towards the shore.

No one moves to help him.

Only now does Katarina notice her audience. Had there been so many assembled down in the river when she started? She doesn't remember. She barely remembers anything between undressing and throwing the punch that knocked the soldier into the river. But she remembers holding him down in great detail. Funny how that works.

Most of the crowd, Katarina doesn't recognize. She can pick out a few men she's seen around before, spoken to on occasion. Almost everyone is of low rank. A bunch of weak nobodies, easily intimidated. When she looks at them, they all have the good sense to avert their eyes, turn, and pretend they hadn't seen her at all. If the river weren't so damn cold that every sense in her body is slowly going numb, she'd probably be able to smell the reek of fear undercutting their admiration.

Good.

Mission accomplished.

Lessons learned.

The only one who's not scared, the only one down in the river who's not no one at all - Riven hasn't come to join the staring crowd. She's off a ways, within sight and watching but not one of the gawkers.

On some level, Riven standing in the river is a ridiculous image - the muscular commander dripping suds, washcloth in one hand, hunk of soap as large as her bicep in the other, frozen staring like she's forgotten she was in the middle of obsessively cleaning her white hair.

On a far more immediate level - _fuck_.

The heat in Katarina is significantly dulled by the godawful freezing river, but it's definitely there.

Very definitely.

Riven's left her chest wrap somewhere on the shore. She's spent so much time training with her chest bound and without a shirt that she has tan lines along the top and the bottom of where the bandages normally cover, in much the same way as there's a clear line showing how far the glove on her right hand normally rises. Pale breasts and pale skin around her mark, dark skin everywhere else.

Riven is all lean muscle in a way that means she could probably benefit from eating more of the slop from the company mess, but also in a way such that _Katarina wants to fuck her_.

But not in the middle of the shit cold river surrounded by every soldier in the Second Army while her extremities slowly freeze, her toes falling off one by one. There's a time and a place for everything.

Katarina swallows. And then she turns and marches back to shore where she left her washcloth and the remnants of Riven's gift of soap.

By the time Katarina finishes cleaning up, Riven has already left.

In Katarina's life, she has learned that there are a near infinite number of ways to go about things. There are, however, only two ways that matter. Cassiopeia's way and Katarina's way. Sometimes there are three, but Talon keeps his opinions to himself most times.

What would Cassiopeia do, were she to decide that she wanted Riven as badly as Katarina has found herself wanting Riven? Cassiopeia would wait a day or two. Then she would accidentally find herself in the same place at the same time as her target. She'd come with legitimate and desperately important business with which she needed help. She'd express moderate distress and suggest that her target's aid was required - but could they discuss it privately? And so on. And so forth. Over the course of a week. Or two. Cassiopeia likes to play with her food.

Cassiopeia's method, in Katarina's humble opinion, is shit. This is not to imply that Katarina couldn't execute it perfectly. Anything Cassiopeia can do, Katarina can do better. That's how being the older sister works.

Katarina has already waited two damn weeks. And she wants what she wants _now_.

Katarina collects her belongings and heads back up the hill towards the camp. The dry grass crunches beneath her boots.

While Cassiopeia's method is shit, that Cassiopeia's method is shit does not make Katarina's usual favored approach a particularly good idea, given the situation.

In Noxus, Katarina works alone, the rare exception being assignments alongside her brother.

Unlike her sister, she prefers her engagements to be brief and without strings.

Cassiopeia enjoys pulling strings. Katarina doesn't.

The point being - she's never before been faced with the problem of wanting to sleep with someone she'll have to work alongside in the future. Is that enough of a reason not to?

 _Of course not_ , the Cassiopeia voice in her head advises. _Quite the opposite, really. Once you have her, you'll have her. Not that you don't already - you're not me, you're slow and inelegant, but you're still a Du Couteau. Now - be a dear and get me another glass of wine?_

And what about Talon? What would Talon advise? That's a trick question.

Talon wouldn't advise. He'd shrug. He'd walk away. _Not my problem_ , he'd say.

Katarina drops her belongings off at her tent, then heads for the section of camp where Fury Company have clustered. The sun has dipped almost entirely below the horizon now and night is falling.

In the absence of any better ideas, Katarina has decided to fall back on what she knows.

She has to ask a small group of soldiers playing dice which tent is Riven's. They point her in a direction. As soon as she's gone a few steps away, she hears them behind her, bursting into excited chatter.

What is it about Riven that's made her entire command so invested in this… whatever it is?

Whatever it is, it's Riven's problem, not Katarina's.

Katarina knows what Katarina's problem is and she intends to solve it.

Riven's tent looks like all the rest. It's the same drab dirty canvas affair, no bigger than those of her men. The only thing that distinguishes it is the sigil flag stabbed into the dirt next to the entrance - the green vertical line of Fury Company on a black field.

Riven's sitting cross-legged on the ground next to her flag, whittling a small piece of wood.

Katarina knows how to move silently, even across the brittle dead grass of the hill they're camped on. She chooses not to. She'd rather Riven see her coming. The grass crunches under her boots.

Predictable, Riven looks up. She doesn't look surprised in the least, rather, her mouth pulls up into a lopsided grin at the sight of Katarina. She slips her knife into its sheath on her belt and stands, dusting herself off. She's wearing the slightly threadbare shirt and trousers she uses when she trains. The wood she was carving goes into her pocket. Katarina doesn't have a chance to see what design was taking shape.

With only a foot or two between them, the difference in height is noticeable. Katarina had forgotten that Riven is _short_. She doesn't seem short when she's riding Trout and she doesn't seem short when she's barking orders at hapless infantrymen. Riven has to tilt her head up significantly to look Katarina in the eye.

Katarina loves being a Du Couteau. She loves being tall. In most interactions, it gives her an advantage even before a conversation has begun. Height is dominance.

Except, apparently, with Riven. Riven's amber eyes gaze steady up at Katarina.

Katarina's thoughts are a white static. _Fuck she's hot._

Riven's low voice has a touch of mirth. "Do you need more soap?" Riven asks. "Another blanket?"

Riven's lips are slightly chapped. She is wasting them, using them to talk about soap and blankets. There are better things she could be doing with them.

There are eyes on them. Katarina can feel soldiers watching. She ignores them.

"I think what I need is better discussed privately," Katarina says smoothly. She tilts her head towards Riven's tent. "By your leave?"

Somewhere, somewhere back in Noxus, Cassiopeia is applauding how well Katarina is handling herself. Katarina violently expels all thoughts of her sister from her head.

Riven doesn't speak, but her answer is clear enough. She ducks into her tent.

Katarina follows her, bending down to get through a doorway adjusted for someone exactly Riven's height.

It's quite dark within the tent, which is a little disappointing - not that Katarina expected anything different as the sun has almost set - but darkness doesn't hinder Riven finding Katarina's lips even before Katarina's fully inside.

Riven planned that, Katarina is sure. Riven is short but she knew Katarina would have to bend down to come in.

There is nothing of hesitance in Riven's kiss and it occurs to Katarina for the first time that Riven has been waiting for her.

A calloused hand runs up along Katarina's neck to rest at the base of her skull, fingers in her hair. Another hand settles on her upper back, drawing her forward, further into the dark.

Katarina follows for the first two steps - but Riven's been waiting, Katarina's been wanting, there's no reason Riven should get to dictate what happens now.

Katarina hooks a foot behind Riven's ankle and pulls.

She can't see Riven's face, but she imagines there's surprise and at least some annoyance.

A good counterpart to Katarina's smirk.

Riven lets go of Katarina to break her backwards fall. She hits the ground with a thud. Riven's a fighter so Katarina doesn't need her eyes to know how it is Riven's fallen. She's got her arms out to dissipate impact, her chin tucked to protect the head, and her legs open enough for Katarina to follow her down and slip a knee between them.

 _Economy of movement_ and all that.

Hands on Katarina's shoulders pull her down further and Riven finds her lips again for another kiss. Unsurprisingly, Riven recovered from being tripped quickly.

Katarina keeps her weight back on her knees. She settles her hands on Riven's stomach, the fabric of Riven's shirt rough under her fingers. She slides her hands down, finds the hem of Riven's shirt, and then brings her hands up again, fingers spread wide, this time running over skin as Riven rises slightly into her touch.

Riven's skin is crisscrossed with scars.

Katarina's hands pause at the base of Riven's breasts. She's not wearing her chest wrap.

Katarina pulls back slightly from the kiss and Riven lets her. "You were expecting me?"

Riven's hands let go of Katarina's shoulders. She hears a glove slide off and then hit the ground nearby. From the way Riven's torso moves, she thinks Riven is running her previously gloved hand through her white hair. "I don't sleep with it," Riven says.

Katarina's disappointed. And maybe Riven feels it in the way she shifts slightly.

"You eye-fucked me in the river," Riven says, matter-of-fact.

Katarina arches an eyebrow but in the darkness the effect is no doubt lost entirely. "You object?"

Riven replies with a low chuckle. "No."

Katarina bends down, lowering her mouth to where she's fairly certain Riven's ear is. "What if I actually fuck you now?"

Under Katarina's hands, Riven's body shivers. Katarina can hear Riven grinning. "No objection."

[] [] [] [] [] []

When they're both thoroughly finished, Katarina dresses again in the near complete darkness of Riven's tent. Riven tries to help, but Katarina swats her away. Riven had difficulty enough figuring out Katarina's buckles in getting her clothes off, there's no way she'd be any more useful getting the clothes back on.

Fully dressed, save for carrying her boots in one hand, Katarina slips out of the tent and into the camp.

It's very late now and light comes from the stars and the full moon above.

That half of Fury Company isn't huddled around the tent is actually somewhat surprising. Instead, it's only a handful of Fury Company, five men, all of them looking pleased with themselves. They're at enough of a distance that Katarina supposes it might be considered respectful, but just barely. She picks Victor and Cheran out from among them.

It's hard to glower when she feels as good as she does, but Katarina is nothing if not a master of looking angry. "Enjoying yourselves?" She's not actually angry. She's gotten what she wanted. The audience was a foreseen annoyance.

Victor laughs. "Nah," he says. He waves a hand dismissively. "The commander would have our heads. She tanned the last fool who got too keen."

Katarina's eyes narrow. She doesn't quite believe him. "Then what are all of you doing here?"

Victor's grin seems to stretch from ear to ear. "Commander owes us money."

"Not a bad bet," the normally quiet Cheran interjects. "She won either way."

Katarina walks away, shaking her head. _Men_.

When Katarina makes it back to her tent and lays herself down, she sleeps a deep, satisfied, sleep.


	8. In Light: Chapter 7

A/N: Whoops, sorry for the schedule slip. I got super distracted writing Wonder Woman fic. To make up for it, I combined the last two chapters of Act 1 into one chapter. So yeah. This is the last chapter of Act 1: In Light. I'll start working on Act 2 hopefully soon? I have it planned out, but I'm not sure how much time I'll have to write it. I'm *really* getting into this Wonder Woman fic thing and school starts again at the end of the month. As I'd already conceptually divided this fic into four acts, this seems a good hiatus point while I do other things for a while.

Anyway, thank you everyone who's been reading this! I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

 **As the Night Falls**

 **Act One: In Light**

 **Chapter Seven**

* * *

Dawn comes entirely too soon.

Katarina wakes as light starts to filter through the canvas of her tent.

She smells like Riven.

A lazy smile works its way across Katarina's face. Riven smells good. And Katarina feels good.

Almost good enough to think she can stand another day of Darius' commanders arguing with each other.

Katarina dresses and goes out into the camp. She's one of the first up and the camp seems near deserted in the early morning, but the men on mess duty have already drawn water and heated up bland porridge and salted meat for breakfast. Almost no one else is in the mess tent, making it easy for Katarina to find a table to herself.

She's nearly done with her breakfast slop when someone sets down their bowl across the table from her.

Katarina doesn't look up.

It's been a week since they last time Riven sat down at the table with her, but Katarina recognizes the way Riven just drops her food down and the way it sloshes as it lands, threatening to spill over the sides of the bowl but never quite making it. Riven follows the bowl down, taking up a spot on the bench opposite Katarina.

Riven doesn't say anything, preferring to set to work on breakfast. She's wearing her black officer's uniform, buttoned up, for once. The collar hides well the marks Katarina's mouth surely left on her neck.

Pity. It would have been nice to see her handiwork.

Since Katarina's almost done eating, she starts. "You had a bet with your men," she says, slowly, enjoying herself. "How much did you lose."

Riven swallows her food. She runs a hand through her messy white hair and doesn't meet Katarina's eyes. "Four weeks' pay," she mumbles.

Katarina chokes on her porridge. _Four weeks' pay?_ She has no idea how much a soldier makes, or an officer, but four weeks is a twelfth of a year. Katarina manages to swallow her food and then clears her throat. "I could have waited a few more days."

She could not have waited a few more days.

Judging from how Riven looks at her from over the top of her bowl, Riven knows this.

Katarina does not appreciate the overwhelming sense of judgment. She attempts to turn the conversation. "You bet that much that - what - I wasn't interested?"

Riven sets her bowl down. It's empty. She ate very quickly. She shrugs. "You're not subtle. But I thought it would take you longer." Finally – finally – she finds Katarina's gaze and keeps it. The ghost of a smile that she sometimes gets tugs at the corners of her lips.

Katarina slides her foot forward until it bumps into Riven's. She smirks. "You could have bet earlier and come to me. Instead of giving me blankets and soap."

Riven's grin is lopsided. She sets her elbows on the table, clasps her hands under her chin. "I never cheat."

Katarina's eyebrows shoot up. She has heard those words before – but in her family, they're always spoken layered beneath thick sarcasm. Never before has she heard them uttered with such sincere confidence. "Not even at cards?" Katarina asks.

Riven's grin rights itself, a full smile now. "I sometimes cheat," she amends.

A chuckle bubbles up in Katarina's chest and escapes from her lips. She shakes her head slightly. "That's what I thought," she says. She stands now, picking up her dirty dishes. "The meeting will be starting soon."

Together, they take their bowls and spoons to the poor sods on cleaning duty.

Outside, the sky is overcast. The grey-white clouds are high though and the air doesn't smell like rain. Not yet, at least. There's dark on the horizon and it's surely a coming storm.

It's still early in the day and there's no hurry to get to Darius' council. Katarina's legs are longer than Riven's, but she finds herself adjusting her stride so that she can walk alongside the shorter woman, matching every step. If Riven notices, she doesn't comment.

Outside Darius' tent, several other officers of varying ranks are waiting. Some of them mill about aimlessly, waiting for Darius to usher them into council. All are dressed like Riven, wearing their black uniforms. Kvellin and Einen are deep in what looks to be a heated conversation. As Katarina and Riven approach, Kvellin looks up and fixes Katarina with a baleful glare.

Will he ever go from glaring at her to actually issuing a challenge? Katarina is wary - she knows nothing about how he fights. She's good enough to pick apart a man's style as she fights, but she prefers to have every advantage available. She'd needed it with Riven. But Riven is Darius' second and Kvellin is not - so surely he's the weakest of the three.

Before anything can come of the tension in the air, Darius emerges from his tent. His uniform looks rumpled, like he wore it all day and then slept in it. Now that Katarina thinks about it, she's never seen Darius down at the river. _Charming_. But, then, she's never noticed any particular reek coming from his direction, so perhaps he washes up on some strange schedule all his own.

Darius surveys his officers, then turns and lumbers back into his tent.

This seems to be some known command, as Riven, Kvellin, Einen, and the rest all file in behind him. Katarina keeps just behind Riven as they enter.

The meeting picks up where yesterday's left off - arguing about what to do if, when, it rains. The cavalry won't be able to charge if there's too much mud, won't be able to do anything, really. This is what Einen insists, at least. Several of the infantry officers apparently have never in their lives dealt with horses and think Einen's strategic concerns are a poor curtain for cowardice, though they dance around naming their accusation. It's clear to Katarina that they care more about the cowardice than the horses. Darius doesn't see the need to put an end to the circular debates - meaning the meeting is going nowhere.

Riven likely could sway the council one way or the other, but, as she did the previous day, she remains silent.

The quality of light filtering through the canvas ceiling of the tent marks the passing of time. Hours pass in endless argument. Despite her ostensible duty to observe the proceedings, Katarina's mind wanders.

It doesn't wander far though. Riven is, after all, standing beside her.

Katarina has never been one to notch her bedposts. Her bedposts are made of ebony imported from the Kumungu Jungle. Her bed costs a fortune. In Katarina's life, people come and go. Bedframes don't. That said, were she back in Noxus, for Riven, Katarina might notch some less expensive piece of furniture. Maybe a nightstand.

Katarina is pleased with herself. Proud, even.

And, in this self-satisfied pride, she is sure that Riven feels similarly.

Although he doesn't often speak, Riven's eyes continuously flicker towards Darius.

They go to Darius far more often than they go to Katarina.

Katarina is not jealous.

She's not.

A voice rips her out of her thoughts.

"Miss Du Couteau," Kvellin says, enunciating every syllable. Not that he'd be the sort to know what _enunciate_ meant.

All eyes are on Katarina. All eyes were already on Katarina – she was well and truly not paying attention.

"Kvellin." Riven's tone is low and dangerous. She's unhappy about something that Katarina missed.

"Are you here as a member of this council?" Kvellin asks. His tone is venomous. "Or are you here as a warm body for the Fury Company commander to fuck? If it's the second, the rest of us should get a turn."

Some of the assembled men chuckle. Some of them tense, shifting their weight subtly into balanced positions, ready for a brawl. Would a brawl be such a strange thing among these commanders of the Second Army?

For a brief moment, all Katarina sees is red. Instinctively, both of her hands go to the hilts of her favored knives. She loosens them in their sheaths. She hasn't used them in a while. They _want_ to be drawn.

Even in her anger though, Katarina chooses her words carefully and speaks slowly. She's better than Kvellin. And so she acts like it. "I'm an observer."

"So will you fight tomorrow or not?" Kvellin presses.

Riven shifts, finally turning her attention towards Katarina. There's a tension in the air, thick as the smog-filled air of Noxus.

Katarina is a Noxian. Even if she had no audience but herself, there's only one answer she can give. "Of course."

Motion in the corner of Katarina's eye catches her attention. Riven is crossing her arms over her chest. "No."

Katarina bristles. "What?" she snaps.

She's ignored.

Kvellin too crosses his arms. He's twice Riven's size, easily, and by all rights he should be intimidating as he looms over the rest of the council. He's not. He's not un-imposing, he's simply not able to outdo the smaller woman he's trying to overbear. "One of my men can't fight tomorrow because of her. I need him replaced."

"Men who get beaten by unarmed women in rivers don't deserve your protection, Kvellin," Riven says, a touch of heat in her voice. "She broke his cheek and his nose. He can still fight."

Kvellin's hands ball into fists. "You're the one protecting someone, girl. Maybe you'd rather she fight with Fury Company instead? Where you can keep an eye on her?"

"She's not infantry," Riven snaps.

Kvellin turns now towards Katarina. "What do you think of that, girl? Are you strong enough to fight with the rest of us?"

 _Protecting her_? Is that what Riven thinks she's doing? The lack of confidence _stings_. It smells of rank betrayal. Katarina's anger bubbles. "I'm stronger than you," she snaps, half to Kvellin, half to everyone else assembled as well.

Instead of immediately rising to meet her challenge, Kvellin laughs. His laugh is a deep baritone, fitting for a man of his size. "Then I'll see you on the line tomorrow. Welcome to Dead Hand."

Katarina's hands clench even tighter on the hilts of her weapons. This commander, this _man_ , presumes to tell her her place.

"No."

Everyone startles. Darius hasn't spoken in some time.

Like his arguing commanders, he stands with his arms crossed. It seems an almost ritualistic position among them – anyone who speaks assumes this stance. "She's here to observe me. She'll fight with me." He glances at Riven. "And with Fury Company."

Kvellin, vindicated, scoffs.

The look that Riven and Kvellin share is anything but friendly. And then Riven turns her attention to Darius. Her scowl is evident. "General-

"We're done here," Darius announces.

Riven presses her lips in a tight line. Across the table, Kvellin, "Yes sir." Riven echoes him a heartbeat after, just barely out of sync.

"Everyone knows their positions," Darius says. "I want to take a nap. Meeting over."

Never before has Katarina been at a meeting that was adjourned with the declaration of _naptime_.

There's a first time for everything.

The commanders don't seem to find anything out of the ordinary about this summary ending of the meeting. One by one they file out of the tent, off to prepare their men for the coming battle. Riven, however, lingers and Darius doesn't move from his place at the table.

And so Katarina lingers as well. She takes a few steps as if to leave, but she takes them slowly and she stops moving when the last of the commanders has gone.

To Katarina's surprise, she is not the one Darius sends away. "Fury Commander," he rumbles. "Leave."

Riven tenses, startled. "General?" There's a clear note of disbelief in her tone.

"You heard me," Darius says, voice flat.

"Sir," Riven says, and the way she says it is the most strained, plaintive sound that Katarina has ever heard come out of the commander's mouth. It's a small sound, not fit for Riven at all.

Darius responds with a grunt and then – that's it. Riven salutes and walks towards the entrance of the tent. She looks back over her shoulder once, at Darius, then at Katarina, before slipping out.

Slow, Darius lumbers around the table towards Katarina. He's tall enough that the table is just barely waist-high. He leans back against it. The table creaks beneath his weight. Again, he crosses his arms. "Du Couteau," he says.

"General Darius," Katarina replies. She's unsure what to make of this, of him. He took Kvellin's side over Riven's – but Riven's side was not Katarina's.

"I'll tell you this once," Darius says. "Stay at the back tomorrow."

"What?" Katarina snaps.

Darius stares at her silently. He meant what he said when he said he'd tell her just once.

"Why?" Katarina tries.

"There are different kinds of strength, Du Couteau," Darius says. "Yours is wrong for our work."

Katarina keeps her face neutral. Darius is correct, she thinks. But she has no intention of admitting that. And she has little intention of doing as he suggests and hiding. What she'll do instead – of that she's unsure. But she cannot hide. A Noxian is not a coward. Darius, of all people, should know this. "Why are you telling me this?" Katarina asks.

Darius has dark eyes. They're a non-descript brown, the same color as most Noxians. What they lack in distinctive coloring though, they make up for with intensity. Leaning back against the table, arms crossed, Darius examines Katarina with a thoroughness he neglected when they first met two weeks prior.

It takes him a while to respond and when he does, all he says is, "None of your business, Du Couteau." In one powerful motion he pushes himself off of the table. Though he's Katarina's height, on account of his great mass, he seems to loom. "I lead this army," he says. "Stay at the back tomorrow. Now get out." He doesn't wait for her to acknowledge his command before he turns away and begins gently rolling up the maps on the table and putting them into their leather cases.

Katarina is not one of Darius' soldiers. She is an agent of High Command. Her lip curls. "You're not my superior," she says.

Darius grunts. "Your funeral."

Katarina lingers just long enough to make it clear that she makes her own decisions, and then she follows in the footsteps of the army commanders and slips out of the tent.

Outside, it's just barely noon. Unlike the previous day, Darius did not allow the meeting to stretch on in endless circular debates. All around the camp, soldiers are checking their gear and performing whatever personal rituals they have to assure their safety in the coming battle.

Katarina has no rituals except the obsessive cleaning and sharpening of her knives. She carries many blades, all tucked away on her person. Often she wears only however many she feels is necessary, but for unpredictable situations she takes comfort in bringing as many as she can. Four on her belt, two knives in each boot, two in forearm sheaths, smaller knives meant for throwing strapped to her thighs, two more blades across her back…

Katarina takes lunch in the mess, alone, and then retreats to her tent. She produces her blade care kit from her saddlebags and begins to methodically clean each of her weapons. A few need oil as well. She sharpens all of them – a strong blade can never be too sharp, her father once advised. Badly made blades can become dangerously brittle if brought to a razor edge, but Katarina's weapons are the best that money can buy – the best that money can't buy, even. The knifemaker who made her blades takes commissions from the Du Couteau and a few other Noxian families and from no one else.

The process of caring for her weapons takes hours. Those hours pass unknown to Katarina. She is absorbed in her work and in her thoughts.

" _Stay at the back._ "

Darius killed his predecessor for cowardice. He took his gigantic axe and executed the man who dared order a retreat.

The whetstone slips.

The edge of Katarina's razor knife bites into the soft skin of her pinky. She swears, loudly.

She's alone in her tent though, and there's no one there to hear her.

 _Cowardice_ is not Noxian.

Katarina is not a coward.

[] [] []

"Dawn" hardly describes what little morning light touches the camp. The sun is hidden behind thick clouds and the air smells of a coming storm. Among the men, there's a nervous energy, the seeds of lightning.

They eat breakfast, and then they arm themselves.

Katarina prowls among the tents of Fury Company. She wears no heavy armor – she owns no heavy armor – and so she's dressed long before the infantry she's to join. Even taking the time to braid her long red hair had her finished and ready with more time to spare than she knows what to do with.

She can feel thick ropes of tension in her shoulders. It's anticipation of a different quality than the sort that takes her in the calm before an assignment. In Noxus, donning her blades and waiting for the sun to set is part of the assignment itself. It's when she reviews, one last time, every step she'll take in the course of her mission, every re-assessment point, every possible thing that could go wrong.

On the border, she has no idea what she should be doing with herself.

She has murdered more men than she cares to count in Noxus.

She has never before been in the thick of a pitched battle of the like that Darius has planned. She's never even seen one from a distance. Most fighting is skirmishes of the like that she participated in a week prior. The border is hundreds of miles long and the contested ground is forty miles wide at some points. Full engagements are vanishingly rare.

Seeing the men of Fury Company slowly assemble makes Katarina uneasy. They are soldiers dressed in steel carrying weapons made for killing men dressed in steel.

If she fought a man so armed and armored, what would she do? What could she do?

She'd have to find a weak point. The joints, likely. But even the elbows and knees are sheathed in metal. The face then. She'd need to slip a blade through the small slit left for the eyes, or the gap left open to let the armored men breath. In single combat, she could do it, with some difficulty. In a melee – she doesn't know her chances, but she does know that she doesn't like them.

In her gut, she knows Darius was right. Riven too.

Katarina's not infantry.

" _Stay at the back."_

From Darius, from the general, it was an order. An excuse. An out.

Katarina could, if she so chose, hide.

"Hey! Miss Du Couteau!"

Helmet up and wrapped in thick steel, smeared with green paint for Fury Company, Victor is almost unrecognizable. If it weren't for his bushy brown beard poking out from under his helmet, Katarina might not have known him at all.

He's walking towards her down a line of tents, still a little way off. A step behind him lumbers an armored man Katarina guesses is Cheran. Both of them wear heavy bastard swords from their belts and carry large shields - planks of wood bound together and painted black and green.

There's an upbeat touch in Victor's voice and it lessens, ever so slightly, Katarina's tension. She can feel the corners of her mouth twitch up in amusement. As he approaches, she decides to meet him halfway.

"The commander says you're with us today," Victor says. "Welcome to Fury Company."

"It's my honor," Katarina replies dryly.

Taking far greater liberties than a sane man would, Victor reaches out and claps Katarina on the back. "You stick with me and Cheran today," he says, tone still upbeat. "We'll make sure you turn out on the other side. Ain't I right, big guy?"

To this, Cheran grunts.

Katarina brushes Victor's hand away. She means to sound angry, but her words come out petulant. "I can look after myself."

Victor laughs, but it's not unkind laughter. "Stick with us anyway," he says. "You make sure we get through this then. Come on."

The three of them – Katarina, Victor, Cheran – all turn and walk together towards where the rest of the company is assembling before they'll march together to the line.

As they join the stream of men lining up, Katarina keeps her voice low. "Did your commander put you up to this?" she asks.

This time it's Cheran who speaks. He speaks so rarely that Katarina doesn't recognize his deep baritone and has to turn to see that it's him talking. "Fury Company looks after Fury Company," he says.

Riven's waiting at assembly already. Like Victor, she's nearly indistinguishable from her men in full armor with her helmet down. Unlike the rest of Fury Company though, she carries her steel sword – larger than she is – and that draws the eye to her, makes her stand out even at a distance. She's deep in conversation with a lightly armored runner. She looks up every now and then, tracking who among her men have arrived, but otherwise her focus is on the messenger.

For a moment, Katarina thinks that Riven's looking in her direction. The moment passes in a heartbeat and Riven turns back to her work.

She's still talking to the runner when Darius arrives.

Clad in black steel plate and carrying his enormous double-headed battle axe over his shoulder, he fits in well with his former company. He sends the runner away and turns to Riven, bending down slightly to better speak with the short Fury Company commander.

Katarina's good at reading lips, even at a distance, but with everyone wearing helmets, she can't tell what's being said. It's frustrating. It's also a fruitless endeavor to stand about willing herself to see through steel. She turns instead to Victor and Cheran, who have remained nearby.

"Is Darius commanding this company or is Riven?" she asks.

Together, Victor and Cheran shrug. As usual though, only Victor speaks. "They've commanded together as long as I've been here," he says. "Can't see this going any other way."

Katarina raises an eyebrow. "And how long have you been here?"

Katarina does not miss the slight pause before Victor answers. "Three years now, I reckon," he says.

Victor has been in the army for longer than three years. She could push, she thinks, but it's not the time.

"Fury Company!"

Riven's voice rips through the thick morning air. It's the loudest Katarina's ever heard her – and the highest. When she speaks, her voice is low and rough. When she wants to be heard by everyone, it's clear she's a woman.

"Move!"

Behind the clouds, the sun is halfway to its zenith. Fury Company and the rest of the Second Army march together out of the camp and Katarina is half-surprised when the earth itself doesn't shake beneath the weight of so many armored feet.

It's not far to the hilltop where the commanders have planned to form their charge, but in the short time it takes to reach the crest of the hill the gloomy sky begins to drizzle. The wet accumulates on the surface of Katarina's black leathers, pools, trickles down to her clothing. It's uncomfortable. It'll slow her movement somewhat once the fighting begins.

Katarina has seen images in musty books of armies preparing to charge. In the books, the soldiers stand neatly in a long line with a commander some paces out in front, facing his men, raising his weapon in the air.

Until now, she hadn't even realized she'd assumed the reality of the pictures in the books.

When the Second Army prepares its charge, there's chaos. Among Fury Company, there's a great struggle as men try to push their way to the front. On either side of the company, other companies are grouped up in a mass and subject to the same crush to be first in the charge – though, in those other companies, perhaps, there are men who allow themselves to be pushed to the back.

Beside her, Victor and Cheran are the only Fury Company men not practically trampling over their comrades to get forward.

 _Evidence_ , Katarina thinks, of orders to keep her out of the way. Her mouth presses into a tight line.

Determined to make the most of the situation, Katarina turns to Cheran. "Keep still," she says. Without waiting for confirmation, she grabs onto his steel-plated shoulder and pulls herself up onto his back, then rearranges herself so that she can stand on his broad shoulders. Beneath her, he barely shifts at all.

With her new vantage point, Katarina can see all the rest of the Second Army as well as the Demacians. The Noxians on their hilltop are above the enemy camp and what walls they've raised of their fort. They're perhaps a half mile off – close enough to charge, not close enough to be cut down by arrows as they arrange themselves.

Down below, the Demacians are similarly getting into position, though in a fashion even less orderly than the Noxians. They weren't expecting a full battle and as the Noxians line up on the hill, the bluebacks are still running out of their tents.

A coil of urgency settles in Katarina's gut. Riven, Darius, the commanders of the army should charge soon, need to charge soon before the advantage of surprise is lost entirely.

As if reading her mind, Darius bellows out, loud enough for most of the army to hear him. "Noxus!"

From the ground, Victor looks up at Katarina. "You should come down now, princess," he says.

Up at the front, Darius' next roar is an order. "Forward!"

[] [] []

The clash of armies is nothing like Katarina's work in Noxus.

 _Nothing_.

When the Noxian line slams into the Demacian line there's a thunderous _crunch_.

The men at the back don't wait for the men at the front to kill an enemy or to be defeated. They just keep charging. The battlefield is a press of armored bodies, scrambling at one another – the back of the line shoves the front forward and everyone in between is crushed in the chaos of it all.

In almost no time at all the ground, already wet from drizzling rain, turns to bloody mud. It sucks at Katarina's feet, threatens to hold her in place.

At the far back of Fury Company's formation, Katarina is afforded a moment to wallow in her shock. If she'd been any closer to the front, lightly armored as she is, the Noxian soldiers behind her would have crushed her, trampled her. At the back, she has Victor and Cheran on either side of her, a buffer from the other Noxians. Together, the three of them advance slowly, not joining the mad push.

Soon, they're walking over the bodies of Noxians and Demacians alike, differentiated only by what little paint on their armor hasn't been obscured entirely by crimson blood. The drizzle isn't enough to wash the corpses clean.

If Katarina knew any of the dead, she'd never be able to recognize them in the melee.

It's a long time, or it feels like a long time, before the flow of the battle brings any live Demacian to Katarina, Victor, and Cheran. He comes from the right, covered in mud and gore, as heavily armed and armored as any man of Fury Company. Behind him are more enemies – they've broken through the Noxian line and in an instant they're on Katarina's small group.

She loses track of her comrades immediately. She can't pay attention to them and the towering man swinging a sword for her neck at the same time.

She ducks and dives, throwing herself towards him, too close for him to use his sword effectively. Unarmored as she is, the difference in speed between them is immense. Before he can react, she thrusts a blade up under the edge of his helmet into his unprotected chin.

The angle is bad. Dead, he collapses forward, nearly flattening her under his steel-clad weight. She tries to sidestep, but the muddy ground sucks at her feet and the corpse's steel breastplate slams into her left shoulder.

Something in her shoulder slips out of place.

Katarina might scream then – it's hard to tell. Everyone is screaming. The sound of the battle is a roar that swallows up all sound and then disgorges it in an undifferentiated mass of death.

With a strength she didn't know she had, a strength fueled by pain, rage, and panic, Katarina shoves the dead man off of her.

She has no chance to catch her breath and reorient herself.

Two more Demacians are on her now, one wielding a two-handed greatsword and the other with a short, bladed polearm.

She can't do to either of these men what she just did to their dead comrade. As soon as she engages one, the other will cut her down from behind.

She's practically unarmored compared to them and carries weapons that will do nothing to their steel carapaces. Her only advantage, the only way she can fight, is with speed.

If she were thinking, she'd think that she were acting as an untrained idiot, that she'll die. But she's not thinking. She doesn't have the time to think. She has to trust her gut.

Katarina darts between the two men, one on either side, turning her back towards neither.

She throws herself sideways towards the man with the sword. It's a weapon more difficult to wield at close range and more precise at a distance than the other man's polearm. As she moves, she deftly reverses her grip on her knife in her right hand and then slams the pommel into her opponent's knuckles.

His hand spasms open and he hasn't the strength to keep his blade up with only the other. He's been trained to never let go of his weapon though, and as his sword falls, he stumbles after it. As he stumbles forward, Katarina pushes off from the ground with all her strength, willing herself free of the mud, jumps, rolls over the soldier's back.

When his comrade's polearm comes down, instead of splitting Katarina in two, it buries in the soldier's head.

Katarina sees the horror in the other man's eyes, briefly, before she sinks her knife into his face, through the small slit left open for him to see through. With his weapon stuck in his fellow's head, he has no chance to defend himself.

Red blood sprays over Katarina as she rips her knife back out of the dead man's face. Her mouth is open, panting like a dog, and some of the crimson gets in. She spits it back out and turns to her next opponent.

It's the hardest fighting of Katarina's life.

She was trained to be a shadow in Noxus – one of her father's men. More often than not, she kills in the dark. Nothing in her twenty-two years has prepared her for the brutality of the battlefield.

But from the day she was born, Katarina was marked to be one of the greatest blades of Noxus. To be strong. She cuts her way through the Demacians, armor or no. One by one they fall.

As she fights, Katarina loses all sense of where she is in the melee. It's begun to rain, a real rain, a heavy rain, and visibility is shit. Everything is slick from the water and it's a struggle to keep her footing and to keep a grip on her weapons.

Step by step though, she's going _forward_. Forward – meaning she's always going towards the next enemy.

Gradually, she fights her way deeper and deeper into the Demacian line.

Allies become few. Enemies become many.

But it's not Katarina that the Demacians flock to. She realizes this when she kills a man from behind. He wasn't charging towards her, he was running to the aid of his comrades.

There's a mass of them some distance off.

Katarina fights her way towards it.

She's a Noxian. Forward is the only direction that exists to her.

The Demacians have their backs to her and she kills two of them before they realize there's another enemy in their midst. She kills another as he's turning to face her. The next one puts up a fight – but she's Katarina Du Couteau. She's better. He falls as surely as all her other opponents.

Katarina engages a fifth man, but before she can strike, an enormous sword parts his head from his shoulders.

 _Riven_.

It takes a bare moment to survey the scene and confirm – the Demacians had been surrounding the Fury Company commander and two of her men, both badly wounded and struggling to stay upright.

They are all deep, deep within the enemy line.

Riven spares only the briefest of glances to acknowledge Katarina's joining of the battle. She moves on to the next foe. He raises a shield. She swings her sword. She turns his shield to splinters and cuts halfway through him, armor and all.

The power and grace of the motion are incredible.

But Katarina has no time to admire – there are still Demacians all around and more are coming, rushing to take down the demon with the giant sword.

As Riven wrenches her blade free from her opponent's body, a Demacian charges from behind her, sword raised high.

Katarina acts on instinct. She throws without a thought for her aim or the consequences of failure.

The knife whizzes past Riven's ear and hits dead center, right in the man's open mouth, slamming blade-first into the back of his throat.

Riven whips her head around in time to see him fall. When she looks back at Katarina, her amber eyes are wide. The rain has washed her armor of most of the gore of battle, but the skin of her face under her helmet is all red with other men's blood.

And then Riven has her sword free and she's turning to the next opponent and so is Katarina.

Katarina doesn't count how many men she kills because she can't. She can't count and fight at the same time.

At some point the rain stops.

If anything, this makes the battle even worse.

So long as the rain fell, the field was cool, to a certain degree. Without the rain, the clash of men is hot, exhausting work.

She's been fighting for – she has no idea how long she's been fighting for.

She's tired.

Her movements are slow, so slow that she feels she's watching herself move. Reliant as she is on being faster than the steel behemoths around her, sluggishness could prove fatal.

It nearly does.

She's fighting a Demacian armed with a sword and a shield. She underestimates him. He swings with his sword and misses. Sensing an opening, Katarina darts forward, planning to do as she'd done to the first soldier she'd fought and sink her knife up into his chin.

He's smarter than that first soldier though, and better armed to fight her. He swings his shield and it slams into her ribs, knocking the wind out of her. She tries to dodge the follow-up swing from his sword.

She doesn't manage to dodge it.

The steel blade bites into Katarina's brow and rips down, splitting her eyelid, falling down to rip through her cheek.

In an instant, she's blind in one eye and her entire world is an explosion of pain.

She stumbles backwards. As she stumbles, she trips over a body.

She falls.

Her head slams into a dead man's steel armor.

Her world goes entirely black.


End file.
